


Best Friends

by spacestationtrustfund



Series: You’re My Best Friend [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, being in Stiles's head is kind of a crazy rollercoaster ride, so this was interesting to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4312698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As long as Stiles can remember, he and Scott have been best friends. But things change, people grow up, friendships end, and even werewolves move on. Stiles is still struggling to understand how he feels about Scott, while it appears Scott has decided that how he feels is not at all the way he used to feel. Stiles has no idea why, and he misses his best friend. And none of the suggestions that are supposed to help are actually helping.</p><p>THIS STORY IS NOW DISCONTINUED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is discontinued due to abyssus abyssum invocat and the fact that I didn't write anything for long enough that I completely forgot where I was going with the plot. I am so incredibly sorry.
> 
> -
> 
> Warnings: general bad decision-making, descriptions of panic attacks, depression/anxiety.

_Best friends_   
_Ex-friends till the end_   
_Better off as lovers_   
_And not the other way around_

(Fall Out Boy, “Bang the Doldrums”)

 

 

 

 

It started when Scott actually kissed him.

Well, that’s what Stiles likes to think, although it wasn’t Scott’s fault in the first place, and Scott wasn’t even the one who started the kissing, and it actually started weeks before, when Stiles told Scott the truth (or at least a part of it), or more accurately a month before that when he almost lost Scott again, or more accurately a month before _that_ when Liam Dunbar was a smart little shit who was too clever for his own good—but whenever it started, Stiles doesn’t really care, not about the start of things, not when he’s focusing on the _end_ of things.

Maybe it started when Scott told him he couldn’t be a part of the pack any more. Actually, all Scott said was “I think it would be safer for you to stay out of some of the more dangerous things,” but since everything that stupid pack does is dangerous, that translated into Stiles Stays At Home Time, and it still hurt. A lot.

Maybe it started when Melissa McCall had a long conversation with Stiles’s dad in the living room while Scott stood awkwardly in the hall and Stiles pretended not to be listening to them, a conversation about Stiles and Scott, and more specifically about colleges and more specifically _different_ colleges. Stiles knows “college” isn’t the c-word used in its traditional sense, but it feels worse to him.

Or maybe it started when Scott stopped actively filling the position of Stiles Stilinski’s Best Friend, and started looking for other job opportunities—such as Derek Hale’s Slightly Shorter Counterpart Who Was Also Stupid or Complete And Total Asshole To Rival Jackson Whittemore.

Whenever it started, it started (there’s no denying that, unfortunately), and Stiles is being pulled along by the sheer force of momentum, although he was never the one to start running—that was always Scott. Their friendship is like a two-sided door, Stiles likes to think then he fancies he’s being metaphorically inclined, and Scott has locked his side, and although Stiles keeps his side hopefully, longingly unlocked, Scott seems to have forgotten about the entire thing.

Maybe it isn’t fair to blame everything on Scott. After all, Stiles had a part in it as well—but his part was nothing like shutting out your best friend since forever; his part was quite the opposite.

Stiles’s part was being a total and absolute idiot, and although he will freely admit to anyone except possibly Lydia Martin that he’s played that role often enough before, this part was a very special kind of idiot. He and Scott were in Scott’s room, studying and arguing about Star Wars, because it’s a crime that Scott still hasn’t seen it. And then Stiles decided to become the stupidest person in Beacon Hills—which is saying something—and kiss his best friend. Terrible, terrible idea to have.

And Scott, naturally, was the good friend and told Stiles he didn’t like him _in that way_ . He didn’t exactly say to Stiles that he didn’t _like_ him, but that’s how it felt, and based on Scott’s actions recently that’s what he meant in the first place. And maybe Stiles feels like shit because of it, but what can he do? It wasn’t his fault, and even if it was—so what? He and Scott have never been like this before.

Of course they’ve had their fights and their bad days, but in the end they’ve always come back together and made up and talked it over and been best friends again. Stiles is trying really hard to avoid even thinking about the fact that it might just be time for him and Scott to stop being best friends—“People change, honey,” Melissa McCall told him one day when he’d gone over to see if Scott was there but he wasn’t and Stiles ended up sobbing out the whole story on the couch, “maybe it’s just time for him to move on”—but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

And then, damn it all, Liam Freaking Dunbar had to be a smart little shit and ask Stiles why he was basically never at pack meetings any more—and Stiles had to say he didn’t know, and Liam said “Well, Scott looks all lonely without you, you should start coming again,” and while Stiles filed away Liam’s phrasing to pull back out at a later date, his brain decided to focus on the “lonely” part.

“Scott, lonely? Don’t be an idiot, Liam,” which is kind of a given to add on at the end of his sentence, seeing as the kid was currently stuffing as much of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich into his mouth as he could so that he could say he was done with lunch and go see Mason.

“Yeah, like a droopy flower,” Liam said thoughtfully, only with his mouth full it came out more as “ _ya lik a drufty flir_ ,” and thankfully Stiles was used to translating Liam’s mouth-full-of-food language and could understand. Liam really needs to think about what he’s saying, and Stiles hopes that Liam doesn’t mean the _droopy flower_ part literally, because that’s an image he does _not_ want seared into his head. But it didn’t matter, because Liam was out the door with his mouth stuffed full of sandwich, and any questions that Stiles would ask were left behind.

Stiles doesn’t like to think about Scott any more, because of everything that’s happened. Maybe, his dad likes to say, Scott is just going through a phase—why adults like the word “phase” so much, Stiles has no idea, and it’s the kind of thing he and Scott would laugh about if Scott wasn’t out of the picture—and needs some space, but he’s never needed space before, and so why does he now, and why hasn’t he had the common courtesy to tell Stiles “Oh, by the way, I’m going to stop talking to you for a while, because of major werewolf shit going on in the other half of my life”?

The last conversation Stiles had with Scott was when Lydia Martin, noted banshee and freakishly good-looking power woman, had decided that Stiles really wasn’t her type after all and ran off with some other person from the lacrosse team that Stiles tries not to think about any more than he thinks about Scott—which means he thinks about them both on a multi-daily basis. Stiles was bemoaning his fate, and Scott told him to “cheer up, at least Malia likes you,” and Stiles complained, “Yeah? No one else does.” That would be the cue for Scott to say “Oh, _I_ like you,” but instead he said, “Yeah, well . . . there’s Kira and Derek and your dad.” And then he had to leave, and he left without saying goodbye, which Stiles can’t stop thinking about—the same way he can’t stop thinking about Scott.

Then there’s Derek—and oh hell, Stiles doesn’t want to think about Derek Freaking Hale either. Derek has always been Scott’s idol, in a way, but now it’s become more than just oh-Derek-is-big-and-scary-and-kinda-cool-to-be-honest, now it’s more oh-Derek-is-big-and-scary-and-cooler-than-my-(ex)best-friend-Stiles-Stilinski. And that, that is seriously not cool with Stiles.

Kira’s been great, though, even if she doesn’t talk that much and when she does it’s mostly about Scott. Stiles can sympathise with that. Most of the time, when he talks, it’s mostly about Scott as well. Sometimes Kira comes over and they watch movies on Stiles’s bed (in a totally platonic way, kitsune-to-human heart-to-heart chats and all that) or talk about simple things like school. It’s almost the kind of thing he had with Scott, except Kira is Kira and, although she’s great, she isn’t Scott.

So when Stiles wakes up on the last day of the second-to-last day of school, and that means school as in high school in general, his automatic motion is to grab his phone and check his texts for Scott’s name. But no, there’s a message from his dad (“do you need a ride?”) and from Derek (“pack meeting tonight if you can come”) and from Kira (“r we still on 4 movie nite? hugs”), because people other than Scott still care about him—but Scott is the one Stiles really wants to care, and he doesn’t any more.

Stiles gets ready like a robot, throwing on clothes and grabbing lunch and his backpack, although all the tests are over with and he really only needs his books to look more studious than he really is. He texts his dad back that he doesn’t need a ride, because of Lydia Martin’s acclaimed awesomeness and the fact that she now has a car that isn’t a shitty old Jeep that doesn’t work any more anyway. The Jeep broke down for good a couple of months back, and although it’s still sitting in the driveway, Stiles doesn’t think it’ll be repaired.

“Stilinski,” Lydia says as Stiles slides into the passenger seat of her Chevy Spark, “how many times in the course of your admittedly brief life have I told you not to wear plaid? Oh, forget it,” she adds as she tugs on his collar to straighten it with one hand while controlling the car with her other hand, “just do your best.”

“ _Lydia_ ,” Stiles whines, “you’re not my mother . . .”

“Oh god, the thought,” Lydia responds with an elegant shudder of disgust, and then, because she’s Lydia Martin, she slaps him none-too-gently about the face. “No, but I’m your friend. Wake up, and get a hold on yourself.”

Stiles wonders if she knows about the whole mess with Scott, although he doesn’t see how she could _not_ know—it’s all over the school, that Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall are no longer joined at the hip. “Thanks for the ride, Lyds.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Lydia says flippantly (Stiles _knows_ that’s an SAT word) as she parks in her usual spot that no one would dare to take from her. “Now get your skinny plaid-covered ass in that building and enjoy the last day of the second-to-last week of school. Kisses!” and she blows him one as he stumbles out of the car into the bright sun.

And as Stiles stands in the parking lot and looks up at the building and the sign—Beacon Hills High School—he can’t help thinking this is the first time he’s faced something like this without Scott by his side, and he doesn’t like the feeling at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Fridays always suck, in Stiles’s opinion, because they’re the end of the week and that means that the teachers have an excuse to be harder on them and give out lots of homework—but now, as a senior, he doesn’t have any more homework, because school is going to be over for good soon, and Stiles is thrilled about this development. No more homework—until college—and all the lower grades keep looking at him with something like awe on their faces. Obviously they’re impressed, and Stiles is way happier about that than he should be. But he still can’t completely forget about Scott. Scott should be laughing about it with him, should be rejoicing over the lack of homework by his side, and he isn’t, and Stiles hates that.

He sees Scott talking with Kira and a group of all very attractive other girls, standing in the hall, as Stiles walks towards his locker. Scott has his arm around Kira’s waist, and she’s pressed into him. The love on their faces is so obvious that even Stiles can tell—but that doesn’t count, because he knows Scott better than anyone; no, he _knew_ Scott better than anyone.

Stiles brushes past Scott without looking at him, because he’s a terrible person. He throws his stuff in his locker and starts walking to his first period class, not thinking about Scott, even though he doesn’t think it’s quite fair to just leave your best friend since forever in the middle of your senior year and end up hanging out with douchebags and becoming a douchebag yourself. Stiles would have laughed at Scott if they were still friends, laughed at the hypothetical-Scott who hung out with douchebags, but now he’s just sad and tries not to think about it, because the hypothetical-Scott is the real-Scott.

Danny waves him over in the middle of the hall, but Stiles just nods to him as he passes. He doesn’t want to talk to Danny Mahealani, of all people, because if anyone would understand what it’s like to love someone you can’t have— _no he isn’t talking about romantic feelings not at all—_ then it would be Danny Freaking Mahealani. Go figure.

Stiles can’t say no to Liam, though, when babywolf runs up to him near the classroom door with a huge grin on his face and asks, “Hey Stiles, are you coming to the pack meeting tonight? It’s gonna be cool; Derek wants you to come,” as if Derek Hale is the deciding force on everything.

Stiles seriously needs to give Liam a crash course in inappropriate-euphemisms-teenagers-say, before the guy embarrasses himself or something worse. “I don’t know, I don’t think Scott wants me to be there.”

Liam pouts like a little kid, although Stiles knows he needs to stop treating him like one. “No way, he wants you to be there,” he protests, and Stiles takes a moment to appreciate the complete innocence of Liam Dunbar, “he’s like a—”

“A droopy flower, yeah I know.” Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes at Liam. “Look, babywolf, I gotta go to class, okay?” And before Liam can say anything in return—most likely an irritated jibe about how his name isn’t babywolf—Stiles is gone.

Classes suck as much as Fridays used to, and that’s really saying something, because the amount of homework was pretty terrible. Stiles decides that he doesn’t have to pay attention, because screw logic and also grades, since exams and shit are over for the year, but he can still get yelled at, which he does, multiple times. The phrase “show an example for the younger students as well as the rest of the seniors” is bandied about gratuitously (another SAT word, he’s sure).

Malia finds him at lunch, and immediately winds herself around Stiles’s neck and hold on, breathing in his scent. Stiles can understand, he’s had enough panic attacks to know that sometimes it’s best to have someone human (or werewolf, it’s close enough in his mind) just to be there.

He sits with Danny and Liam and Malia and Lydia, and they make small talk—exceedingly small—about school and classes and other shit Stiles no longer cares about. Instead, he thinks about the day Melissa came to his house to talk to his dad and brought Scott along with her, trailing awkwardly behind like a lots puppy. Stiles could have made all sorts of werepuppy jokes, but he didn’t, because at that point he and Scott were already falling apart.

Stiles listened at the door, while Scott stood in the hallway, looking out of place and uncomfortable. Melissa didn’t beat around the bush; she skipped the pleasantries and went straight to the dreaded talk about college. Stiles tried not to listen to most of the conversation, but one thing he did notice was that Melissa seemed to be talking about one college, and his dad seemed to be talking about a very different one.

Ever since he started thinking about colleges in general, Stiles knew there was the possibility that he and Scott would end up in different places, but now that it’s coming closer and closer to the time when they’ll actually have to go to those aforementioned colleges, he’s getting scared. College is a terrifying prospect, and Stiles doesn’t want to face it without Scott, or at least without a Scott he can Skype with at two in the morning about stupid little things or text in the middle of class because he thought of a cool idea or call whenever he wants because Scott and Stiles are, and always have been, best friends.

Then Lydia smacks him in the face for the second time that day, which Stiles really does not appreciate, and grabs him by the shoulders and starts shaking him. “Earth to Stiles, calling Stiles, is Stiles Stilinski there? Hello, hello? This is Lydia Martin, is anyone there?”

“Lyds, what the hell,” Stiles grumbles, because he’s spilled his drink on his pants, and while it isn’t exactly in a compromising spot, it’s still wet and uncomfortable and gross. “What was that for?”

Malia eyes Lydia curiously as Lydia releases Stiles and sinks back into her seat more gracefully than Stiles will ever be able to accomplish—although, he isn’t a gorgeous genius girl like Lydia. “You were daydreaming, and I asked you if you were coming to the pack meeting tonight.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles complains, because screw logic, he can complain without complaining at all. “I don’t know, ask Scott, he’s the alpha.” Oh, irony. Oh, resentment. Stiles could throw a whole little pity party if he wanted to.

“Scott doesn’t control everything you say,” Malia reminds him, and Stiles squeezes her hand in thanks. It’s true, Scott shouldn’t be his alpha, especially not now that he’s basically banned Stiles from the pack in general. “I want you to be there, you should come.”

Stiles can’t say no to her puppy-dog (were-coyote?) eyes. “Yeah, fine,” he says ungraciously in response, “if you want, but don’t press charges if someone gets dismembered or decapitated or disembowelled or—” He’s running out of words. “Or dishevelled, I don’t know, fight me.”

Malia starts to open her mouth, probably to ask if Stiles meant that literally, but stops herself and closes it again. Lydia smiles, clearly pleased with herself, and leans back. “Excellent. I’ll just text Alpha Scotty then, to let him know.”

“Tell the cops I was forced into this,” Stiles mumbles.

Liam bounces up excitedly in his seat. He really doesn’t act like his age, although Stiles was hardly one to talk. “Cool! Can we rent a movie, Lydia?” He looks over at her for permission.

Lydia smiles and says gently, “I don’t know if Derek will be too thrilled, but I don’t see why not,” and Liam practically flies into the air with happiness. Lydia sighs and says kindly, “But I’m not your mom, Liam.”

“Nah, you are,” Liam says happily. “You’re my mom. And Scott is my dad! Hey, I’m gonna go hang out with Mason, okay?” And before anyone can reply, he grabs his lunch, stuffs his sandwich in his mouth yet again, and takes off running.

Lydia sighs but smiles almost proudly. Danny says, “You really are like his mom, Lyds,” and Lydia nods in confirmation. Stiles doesn’t know why that fact hurts him so much, other than the accompanying fact that Liam proclaimed Scott his dad, and it always used to be that Stiles and Scott were his dads. Both of them. But now it’s just Lydia and Scott, back to the typical heterosexual non-couple not-really-parents. Stiles finds he’s scowling at his sandwich and apologises in his head, because his lunch doesn’t deserve to be a recipient of his dark thoughts.

Malia wants to stay at Stiles’s house after school, for help with homework (“There’s no more homework,” Stiles reminds her. “I know,” Malia says, “but I want to study anyway”) and possible other, more private, things, and Stiles really doesn’t dislike that idea.

“I can come and get you two to take you to the pack meeting,” Lydia announces, and Stiles is so screwed, so pathetically screwed, that if he were taking the meaning literally he would either be deep into wood or regularly getting fucked.


	3. Chapter 3

“Malia,” Stiles says quietly, brushing the hair away from her face, “why do you want me to come to the pack meetings? You’re not stupid, you know Scott doesn’t want me to be there.”

Malia lifts her head up from Stiles’s lap; she’s been curled up on his legs while he quizzes her on science and history lessons, although school hasn’t required them to be doing homework. Malia frowns slightly, which Stiles thinks he would appreciate more if he wasn’t so worried. “I think Scott does want you to be there.”

Stiles thanks her mentally for understanding that he didn’t want to talk about the pack meeting, he really wanted to talk about Scott, and Malia, for all her inability to function like a human all the time, is incredibly smart. “No, he doesn’t. We’re not friends any more.”

“Bullshit,” Malia says, and Stiles curses himself for teaching her swearwords, although to be fair he thinks Scott had a bigger part in that role than he did. “Scott misses you, he just doesn’t want to talk to you because you’re an idiot.”

“Thank you for that, Malia,” Stiles says sarcastically, and reaches for his phone. It buzzed a few minutes ago, but he hasn’t wanted to check it because he knows it won’t be Scott. Sure enough, the message is from Lydia—“GET YOUR ASS DOWN THE STAIRS STILINSKI IM OUTSIDE YOUR HOUSE”—and Stiles shoves the phone in his pocket and shoves the textbooks in Malia’s bag and they scramble down the stairs so Lydia won’t be kept waiting, because Lydia can be a real demon—no pun intended, of course, Stiles thinks to himself—when she’s kept waiting.

“So I was thinking, since Stilinski’s getting back into the feel of things,” Lydia says while she drives towards Scott’s house, and Stiles tries not to focus on where they’re going, because he’s memorised the route, “we have to have some sort of a party, especially since it’s the end of the year and we’re going to college—at least, most of us”—she doesn’t exactly give Malia a look, but Malia still bristles visibly—“therefore we should throw Stiles a party and celebrate his emergence into the proper world once again.”

“Stiles disapproves,” mumbles Stiles, although he knows it’s pointless to argue with Lydia, especially not when she’s got the support of the entire pack behind her, not to mention Scott, and Stiles only has himself and possibly Malia.

“Stiles needs to shut the fuck up and mind his own business,” Lydia replies. “Sorry,” she adds, looking at Malia out of the corner of her eye. Stiles rolls his eyes at Lydia, but she ignores him.

“Stiles thinks this is his business if there’s going to be a party thrown in _his_ honour,” Stiles says, only slightly angry. He can’t be angry with Lydia for very long before she figuratively beats it out of him, through her sheer verbal force.

“Why are you referring to yourself in the third person?” asks Malia curiously, and Lydia goes off into a long-winded explanation about why teenage boys are huge dorks that Stiles is sure Malia doesn’t understand a word of, but it’s enough cover for him to rest his head against the window and try not to think about Scott.

It started when Scott got accepted into the local college, Stiles complains in his head to himself, because he doesn’t have Scott to complain to any more. And Stiles didn’t, because he didn’t apply. And maybe he lied to Scott a little and told him he just didn’t get accepted, but Scott’s idea of “oh we can go to the same local college and be bros forever” didn’t seem as appealing to him any more, not when Stiles was looking at colleges like Yale and Princeton and Brown, colleges that it would be hard to get into, and that Stiles really does want to get into, and that he’s actually tried to get into—colleges that Scott will most certainly not be going to, and that’s fine for him, but it isn’t fine for Stiles, and Stiles doesn’t like that in the least.

And then there was the last time they studied together, at Scott’s house again, eating potato chips on Scott’s bed and tossing biology facts back and forth like ping-pong balls. Stiles was in the middle of explaining about Star Wars, again, and Scott interrupted with a, “ I think it would be safer for you to stay out of some of the more dangerous things,” and Stiles asked him what the hell he meant by that, and Scott explained (in essentials) that he didn’t want Stiles acting as if he were part of the pack, because he isn’t, not any more, and Scott was.

So Stiles listened, but he had to ask, “What, am I not your friend any more?” He meant it as a joke, but there was hurt in his voice, and when Scott didn’t answer the question, Stiles decided to be an absolute idiot and start kissing his best friend, and Scott of course said he didn’t like Stiles, and that was that.

It started when Stiles actually kissed him, and it was the worst thing he’d ever done in his miserable life, which was, to be honest, saying a lot.

Lydia parks in front of Scott’s house and practically drags Stiles into the house, because he doesn’t want to go, but then Liam comes running out of the front door with a huge grin on his face and yells, “You came!” and Stiles wants so badly to make a “that’s what she said” joke that it takes his mind off Scott for a brief moment.

Liam is bouncing up and down, trying to be as tall as Stiles, which isn’t working in the slightest. “Scott is so upset right now, and he keeps telling everyone they’re all dumbasses for inviting you,” he says, as though that fact is the biggest secret in the world.

“Language, Dunbar,” Lydia warns, and Liam’s head drops as he mumbles an apology, then is back in his hyper mood again, talking a mile a minute, and leading them all into the house with that huge grin still plastered firmly on his face. Lydia looks over at Stiles, worry plain in every inch of her face, her mouth turned down with just a slight upturn at the left corner, and Stiles quickly makes a face that’s meant to reassure her, although it probably has the opposite effect of the intended one.

Derek is standing in the hall, glaring as usual—the guy really does spend most of his time glaring, or staring, or other things that rhyme with _air-ring_ , although the only one Stiles can think of at the moment is raring, but that wouldn’t be too far off the mark. “You’re late, by the way,” he snaps, and Stiles wonders if it’s just his imagination that everyone seems to be in a pissy mood (except Lydia) or if his presence really has had that much of an effect on the rest of the pack.

No,  _ on the pack _ . He isn’t part of the pack, not any more, and he can’t say _ the rest of the pack _ when he isn’t even a part of it.

Then Lydia shoves him from behind and Malia slips past him and Stiles realises he’s been standing in the hallway, gaping at Derek like a colossal idiot, and he quickly hurries to follow the girls into Scott’s house. God, it’s been so long since he was in Scott’s house, but it hasn’t changed that much, and he’s glad of that. Stiles isn’t a werewolf or werecoyote or kanima or whatever other freaky supernatural creature his friends have become, and he doesn’t have a super heightened sense of smell or hearing, but it almost feels as if he does: He can almost smell Scott in the house, or more like he can smell the house in Scott, which doesn’t make any sense at all, and he’s even confusing himself.

But it isn’t entirely ridiculous, because Scott has now come into the hallway and is standing there with a scowl on his face to rival Derek’s, and Stiles is a pathetic loser who’s slightly, okay very, obsessed with his ex-best friend. “Why did you invite the human?” asks Scott, and that word feels like a steel knife in his heart (which he knows really sucks, because he’s felt it before).

_ Human _ . Scott never used to call him  _ the human _ , no, that was Derek or Peter or the other stupid alphas who didn’t know when to shut their stupid alpha faces, and now that Scott is supposedly a “true alpha” it seems he has joined the club of Stupid Alphas Who Don’t Know When To Shut Their Stupid Alpha Faces. Stiles was always Stiles, but now he’s  _ the human _ , and the human is pissed that he’s the human.

“What, you can’t handle me being here,  _ werewolf _ ?” Stiles shoots back, because he’s pissed and jealous and friendsick (that’s a thing, or at least it is now, like lovesick only for friendship).

Scott only glares at them all, then says stiffly, “Lydia, Malia,” and nods his head in some sort of weird werewolf acceptance ritual that Malia returns and Lydia only sighs at, because she is awesome and possibly Stiles’s new favourite girl (besides Malia, of course).

Then Kira walks up behind Scott and puts her hand on her shoulder and says, “Why are we all standing awkwardly in the hallway? Scott, Liam ran past me to your room yelling something about fudge, you might want to be concerned. Hello, Stiles, Malia, Lyds. Come in, since my boyfriend clearly doesn’t have any proper manners.” She smiles at them all, perfectly nice and sweet and innocent, and Stiles always has a hard time connecting this Kira with the raging vixen kanima crazy woman Kira that shows up sometimes.

“You know, even Derek looks happier than you,” Stiles grumbles as he passes by Scott, who glares even more, because Stiles can never keep his mouth shut either, and Stiles knows that it’s going to be a very long evening.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if Stiles is a bit ADHD and confusing at times . . . he really is quite interesting to write. Yeah, why don't we go with 'interesting' as the word. :)
> 
> x Mochi

In re Liam’s suggestion, Lydia has rented a movie, and in re Lydia, it turns out to be a cheesy old werewolf movie with terrible special effects and worse acting, but Liam enjoys it, enough that he spends most of the time complaining that the werewolves are totally unrealistic, and their eyes shouldn’t  _ all _ turn red, and they don’t get  _ that _ big, and they don’t normally eat  _ people _ when they’ve changed, and once he’s exhausted that realm, he starts complaining about how they don’t even try to do the whole “alpha, beta, omega” and/or “the sun, the moon, the truth” thing when they start to change.

“I think that’s part of the point, Liam, because they don’t know how to be werewolves yet,” Scott points out, and Stiles finds it incredible that they’re actually having a legitimate conversation about the proper way to be a werewolf.

“Well, then they’re dumbasses,” Liam grumbles in retribution, which appears to be his new favourite word in his vocabulary. Lydia cuts her eyes at him but doesn’t comment on the swearwords.

About halfway through the movie, Kira yawns and cuddles onto Scott’s shoulder, and Scott shoots Stiles a very dirty look that Stiles doesn’t want to try to interpret at the moment. Malia, not to be outdone, curls up on Stiles’s lap and buries her head in his jeans, which is slightly uncomfortable and also makes Stiles consider the terrible repercussions (SAT word) of getting a boner in the middle of a pack meeting.

Derek is sitting stiffly in a chair, watching the movie with the same unchanged scowl on his face, and Stiles watches him covertly out of the corner of his eye, because watching Scott and Kira is making him angry. Derek has improved a lot on the positivity scale, with some very forceful help, but what else is to be expected from a guy who watched his house burn down and his family die when he was only a kid? Stiles isn’t scared of Derek any more, and he doesn’t have a crush on him any more, he kind of just tolerates him. Derek seems to return the feeling, which makes their relationship a mutual field of toleration.

When the movie’s over (it has some terrible cliché name like The Wolves of Insert Name of Town Here), Liam bursts into another flood of questions and complaints, mostly directed at Scott and Lydia. “Have you ever eaten someone?” he asks Scott, who shakes his head. “Did Derek ever eat someone? Derek, have you eaten anyone before?”

“Yes, actually,” Derek says in a slightly less grumpy voice, “it was a teenage werewolf like you who was up too late past his bedtime.” It takes a minute for Liam to get the joke (Stiles is still agonising over the fact that Derek made a joke at all), but then he starts off again on an endless flow of queries and complaints.

Stiles almost rolls his eyes at Scott before he remembers that he can’t look over at Scott and share his feelings any more, and maybe he’s pathetic and stupid and friendsick (there it is again), but he really wants to talk to Scott, just _talk_ to him, without anything else in the way, just to figure out what’s going on and where they stand. So he turns to Lydia, because she’s awesome, and whispers in her ear, “Can you get everyone to go away? I wanna talk to Scott.” Maybe not the best way to say it, but he knows Lydia will understand. Besides being deadly smart in school, she reads people better than she reads books (which is saying something for sure).

Lydia winks and stands up. “I’m so tired,” she says, yawning, and Stiles really hopes she won’t go with something _too_ cliché. “Also hungry, can we take this party to the kitchen? I ordered pizza and it should be here any minute.”

“You ordered _pizza_?” Scott exclaims, outraged, but Lydia waves her hand carelessly.

“Don’t worry, Alpha Baby, I paid for it, only I told them to deliver to your house. Don’t freak.”

Scott frowns and almost does the cute pouty face he used to do when he and Stiles were still little kids who were also best friends. Malia follows Lydia obediently, and Liam trots happily after Lydia as well. Kira gives Scott a worried look, but she can clearly tell something’s up, and she hurries after Lydia. Even Derek goes along with it, although Stiles suspects that’s mostly because he’s worried they’ll get into some trouble. He might not be their alpha any more, but he still has that residual (is that an SAT word?) protectiveness over them all.

Then it’s just Scott, who’s cleaning up the movie, and Stiles, who’s standing awkwardly behind him and trying to come up with something clever or smart to say, but of course, because he’s Stiles Stilinski, he blurts out, “I miss you.”

Scott freezes, although Stiles isn’t fooled: He knows Scott was aware that he was in the room as well; apart from being a werewolf with super heightened senses of hearing and smell, Scott and Stiles have been around each other for long enough that they can tell when the other’s in the room or not, and what they’re doing. “Stiles, I thought we talked about this.”

And that’s when Stiles exploded, thankfully figuratively. “We didn’t talk about this,” he says loudly, “we never went over it, we never talked about it, it was all just you saying you didn’t want to be friends any more, and god _damn_ it Scott, that hurts a lot.”

“It isn’t that we’re not friends,” Scott begins, but Stiles is so tired of all the excuses and the fighting and the ignoring and the passing it off as something that can be worked out with a little bit of time.

“McCall, I know you’re not stupid, and neither am I,” Stiles says, and he realises with a slight shock that he almost sounds dangerous—and _he’s_ threatening _Scott McCall_ , a _werewolf_ , and _what_ has his life become? “But we’ve been friends for basically our entire lives, Scott! Why did you want to just throw that away? If it’s something that happened, okay, then _tell_ me that! Don’t just vanish like a freaking ghost.”

Scott actually growls at that. “I—didn’t—vanish. Stiles! I just had a lot of shit to work through, after A-Allison,” he stutters a little over her name, and Stiles feels something sharp pierce him in the vague area of his chest, “and the Nogitsune . . .”

“Did you forget what I told you at the motel, McCall?” Stiles is pacing now, waving his hands emphatically in the air, and he knows how ridiculous he must look compared to Scott, who’s leaning against the wall like a panther. “We’re _best friends_ , we’re _brothers_ , we’re _pack_. That isn’t something you can walk away from without telling me!”

“ _I didn’t walk away, Stiles_.” Scott spits the name like it’s something he hates, and Stiles blinks in shock: He’s only heard Scott get so angry a few times throughout their lifetime before. “I don’t know what kind of delusion you’re operating under, but _you_ were the one who stopped being friends with _me_.”

Stiles gapes very unattractively at him, his mind seeming to slow down in confusion. “I—what? I did what now?”

Scott groans and shoves his palm against the wall; Stiles thinks he can see it crack. “Remember when we were studying and you—you, ah—you—” He stops, face bright red, and clears his throat awkwardly. “You, um, you know. I thought that meant you didn’t want to, ah, stay friends. You know. If that was what you wanted.”

Stiles wants to explode again, not figuratively but literally. “You stupid werewolf!” he almost shouts, but not completely because he does rather like Melissa and doesn’t want her to throw him out of the McCall household completely. “Why would that mean I didn’t want to be friends with you any more?”

Scott is still bright red, which has an interesting effect on his skin. Stiles thinks he’s gotten even more brown over the school year leading up to their senior graduation. “I don’t know, how are you _supposed_ to take it when your best friend tries to make out with you?” Stiles is blushing now too, but Scott continues ruthlessly. “I thought that meant you didn’t want anything except—yeah.”

The entire conversation is a complete mess, and Stiles really wishes Lydia would come back and rescue him before he makes a fool of himself once again. Three, two, one, but no magical banshee woman appears to save him, so he turns his attention back to Scott. “Scott . . . I still want to be friends, I don’t know what I was thinking then. I mean, we’ve been best friends for a million years now, right? I’ve never, ah, kissed a guy before. I was kind of thinking I could . . . try it out. On you. Yeah.”

“Okay,” Scott says, his eyebrows creeping dangerously towards the ceiling above. “I guess I just freaked out. It’s just weird, Stiles. I don’t know what’s going to happen when we leave for college. I don’t see how we could stay . . . us. I guess I was just trying to end whatever it was before it got too . . . late.”

Stiles doesn’t say _What the hell does that mean_ , he doesn’t say _I don’t want to end it_ , he doesn’t say _It will never be too late for you to tell me you love me_ ; he nods professionally and says, “Well, all right then. I see your point.”

Scott is smart, though, and he sees right through Stiles’s façade. “You never see my point, Stiles. Tell me the truth.”

Yeah, what a wonderful thing to ask, Stiles yells at himself inside his head, and also at Scott, tell the truth and then what? You’ll run away and hide from me again? Tell me you can’t deal with it when I possibly maybe wanted to try out some stuff? Where were you when I needed you the most? I thought we were supposed to be there for each other forever. Wasn’t that what we decided when we were kids on the playground?

But before Stiles can even decide if he wants to tell Scott the truth (and, because Scott is also a failwolf like Derek, he obviously hasn’t picked up on how Stiles’s heartbeat has increased in rapidity and how he’s starting to panic) or not, Kira Freaking Yukimura comes back into the room and walks right over to Scott and kisses him. Of course, Kira is amazing, and she really has no idea what an idiot she’s being, but Stiles still wants to strangle her. She whispers something in Scott’s ear and Scott follows her to the kitchen without even looking back at Stiles.

Stiles is really starting to hate kitsunes.


	5. Chapter 5

Lydia has indeed ordered pizza, and Liam has devoured most of it by the time Stiles actually summons the energy to rejoin the pack (rest of the pack? he wonders. He doesn’t know). Stiles manages to grab a piece of pizza before Liam eats them all, and in return gains a very dirty look from Liam himself. Stiles resists the urge to stick out his tongue, because he’s supposed to be more mature than that.

Malia is sitting on the counter and eating another slice of pizza, so Stiles walks over to her and positions himself in front of her, and she wraps her legs around him and buries her face in his hair, which would be sweet and romantic if she didn’t have tomato sauce smeared over her mouth. Stiles thinks he catches Scott watching them, but when he looks over to check Scott has already turned back to Kira and is commenting on some inside joke Stiles doesn’t know.

It used to be that Scott and Stiles had their own inside jokes, it used to be that they would laugh about things and everyone else would be left out, it used to be that they were a pair, but now it seems like it’s Scott and Insert Girl’s Name Here, whether it’s Allison or Kira, the effect—making Stiles feel like shit—is the same.

Derek isn’t eating, only glaring at the box which contained the pizza, and something about Derek reminds Stiles that the guy has only about as much right to be in Scott’s pack as Stiles himself. Of course, there’s the added bonus of Derek actually being a werething while Stiles is, as Scott has so helpfully pointed out, a human.

Eventually Liam decides the silence is too much, because he stops his quest to shove as much food in his mouth as he can (a lifelong quest which is most often undertaken during lunch hour) in favour of complaining, “Why is everyone so quiet? Is it because Stiles is here? Because I don’t mind.”

And Stiles thought _he_ was the one who didn’t have a brain-to-mouth filter, but apparently Liam also has some interesting issues with saying what first comes to his mind. Yet the difference between them, Stiles thinks, is that Liam probably is actually asking that question in complete innocence, and has no idea what he’s saying.

Scott bristles (is it okay to make that joke? Now that he’s a werewolf?) and Stiles can almost see his eyes change colour. “Stiles being here isn’t a problem, Liam.” Odd thing to say, given the fact that it was none other than Scott himself who had complained about Stiles attending the pack meeting in the first place.

“Then he can come next time too?” asks Malia, also not understanding anything about the situation, although Stiles is actually glad that she’s asking that question, and that she’s standing up for him even if she doesn’t know she is. “And the time after that? I want him to be here.”

“Yeah,” Kira chimes in, and that’s when Stiles knows Scott won’t argue—if his girlfriend is against him, he has no chance, and Stiles allows himself a small moment of happiness at his victory. “Stiles, we missed you!” And she actually hurries over to him and engulfs him in a hug, which would be less awkward if Scott wasn’t glaring from over Stiles’s shoulder, just like Derek was earlier.

“I missed you too,” Stiles says truthfully, deliberately not looking at Lydia, because he knows she’ll have a knowing look on her face that he really can’t stand at the moment. “But I wouldn’t want to, I don’t know, intrude if it’s an issue . . . _with Scott_.” He emphasises the words, makes sure Scott knows what he’s really saying, lavishes in the angry/confused/lost look Scott has on his face.

“It’s not an issue,” Scott says through gritted teeth.

“Excellent! I’ll make sure Stilinski gets here next time then,” Lydia says promptly, all businesslike and snappy, like a professional. She closes the box of pizza, smacks away Liam’s hand when he reaches for another piece, then takes her purse from the kitchen counter and checks her phone. From where he’s leaning against the counter, Stiles can see that she has twelve new text messages. “It’s late, I think we should go.”

“It’s past your bedtime, babywolf,” Stiles says warningly, and Liam opens his mouth to respond before changing his mind and pouting instead. “Don’t give me that look, you know you shouldn’t be up this late.”

“Thanks a lot, dad,” Liam grumbles, and Stiles feels a thrill rush through him at the word. _Dad_. He’s back to being dad. Liam’s dad. Which means either Lydia or Scott is his counterpart. Stiles doesn’t know which one would be best, _no_ , worst, _no_ , forget it.

“He has a point,” Derek says grudgingly; Stiles widens his eyes in surprise that sourwolf is actually agreeing with him, but Derek ignores him and focuses on Liam. “I can drive you to Mason’s, unless you’re staying here.”

Liam looks incredibly conflicted. “I—um, I guess I’ll stay with Scott.” Which settles the matter, and Scott is his other dad, and it never used to feel so extremely . . . so extremely _not-straight_ to Stiles when he and Scott were apparently parenting Liam before, but _now_ he notices, oh yes, he notices.

Malia slides off the counter, her legs slipping from Stiles’s waist, and he immediately misses her warmth. There’s something so comforting about Malia, something that Stiles doesn’t want to let go of any time soon. It was something similar that Lydia had, although Lydia was different. With Malia, Stiles feels her on an almost psychic level, understands her subconscious, almost like . . .

Stiles is really starting to hate how everything relates somehow to _Scott_.

Lydia drives him back to his house, without saying anything about Scott at all—for which Stiles is extremely grateful—and drops him off with only a vaguely worried “stay safe,” so Stiles promises her he’ll be safe, of course he will, danger comes looking for _him_ , not the other way around. Lydia purses her lips and blinks a couple of times, but she doesn’t contest his words, and she actually gets out of the car to give Stiles a hug. Stiles holds on to her, feeling how fragile her shoulders are, inhaling her faint smell of lavender and oranges. “You stay safe too,” he whispers in her ear, and she nods against his collarbone.

Stiles wanders into his house feeling lost, and wishing he wasn’t, and he tries to get to his room without having to talk to his dad, but his luck seems to hate him recently, and karma is, as they say, a bitch. The Sheriff is sitting at the table, and he looks up when Stiles walks in the door, and sets his elbows on the table in a way that says plainly This-Is-A-Father-And-Son-Chat-Time-So-Sit-Your-Ass-Down-And-Listen-To-Me-Right-Now.

“Stiles,” his dad begins, with a look on his face that restates what his elbows have been saying, “are you planning to go to graduation?”

He recognises the start-off-simple-to-work-up-to-the-big-stuff bluff (it’s one he’s used plenty of times in the past), but Stiles figures he has to go along with it anyway. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I’m graduating, aren’t I?” A part of him wonders if he’s going to be told he isn’t graduating at all, and he’s confused.

“Well . . . yes,” the Sheriff replies, looking as awkward as Stiles feels. “Of course. And . . . how are things with Malia?”

“I’m fine, dad,” Stiles says shortly; he knows he shouldn’t be so snappish (is that an SAT word? It should be) but he really can’t help it. He’s too emotionally and mentally drained to act the good son one more time.

The Sheriff takes a slow breath and lets it out even slower, as if he’s trying to see how long he can keep the silence before Stiles goes completely insane. “Stiles, how are things with Scott?”

And there it is, and Stiles feels suddenly like everything inside him that he’s been trying so hard to hide and fight back has finally beaten him for the last time and is rushing out in a great cresting wave of stupid teenage emotions. His dad noticed, and now Stiles doesn’t know how to change the subject.

“Um, we’re fine,” he stammers, trying desperately to think of something else he can say to make his dad believe he’s okay, “we just haven’t been spending as much time together because he, you know, has a lot of stuff to do.”

It isn’t entirely fair, Stiles thinks bitterly to himself, because not only does he have to try to work around the issue of the broken friendship between him and Scott, but he also has to try to work around the issue of the entire werewolf thing.

“All right,” the Sheriff says, and Stiles can tell he isn’t believing the pathetic excuse, but he’s grateful that his dad isn’t pushing it too far. “You should get to bed, Stiles. I know you don’t have any school tomorrow, but you should still get to sleep. I don’t think you’ve been getting nearly enough lately.”

“Okay,” Stiles mumbles noncommittally, while thinking to himself how true it is, that he hasn’t been able to sleep well, and certainly not enough, because he keeps worrying about every single thing in the goddamn universe conspiring against him to ruin his life. Including Scott.

He wanders to his room discordantly, then flops on his bed and checks his text messages again, because although he knows Scott won’t have texted, he’s holding out on the hope that one of his other friends has and will have some knowledge which will change his life in some interesting new way, or maybe just be mildly entertaining.

 

 **From** : Kira

hey r u ok?

 

 **From** : Lydia

stilinski what happened? u looked rly upset b4. was it scott’s fault? can i help?

 

 **From** : Lydia

stiles dont bullshit me i know yr upset. tell me if i can do ne thing 2 help. :/

 

Stiles thinks briefly about responding to the texts, especially those from Lydia, but then he shuts off his phone and turns the lights off as well, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’ll ever be able to move on.


	6. Chapter 6

Scott gets out and his face lights up when he sees Lydia, but when Stiles stands up on shaking legs to stand next to her, Scott’s eyes go dark and he stops in his tracks and says pointedly to Lydia, “Why did you want me to come here? Just so I could talk to him again? I thought we worked this out already.”

Lydia looks back to Stiles, waiting for him to say his piece, and Stiles knows that although she said she would leave once Scott arrived, her simple protectiveness won’t allow her to leave yet. He focuses on Scott, who’s waiting expectantly for one of them to explain why they lured him out under false pretences, and Stiles opens his mouth and gets out, “We didn’t.”

Two words, two simple words, and they say so much: Stiles wants to say more, but for once he’s unable to talk, and that’s probably a good thing, given his noted lack of a filter on his speech. Scott blinks and his body language shifts from _furious_ to _angry_ —not much of a difference, but to Stiles it’s a start.

“Well, then what do you want to say?” snaps Scott, his arms folded firmly in front of him, and Stiles is drawn to the tattoo Scott has on his arm, the one that’s just bands of dark ink, and how he was there when Scott got his tattoos, and how he thought he would always be there.

Stiles sees Lydia out of the corner of his eye, moving away from the pair of them, subtly leaving the conversation to Scott and Stiles, and he wants to scream at her _don’t leave me again_ or _please stay with me_ but it’s too late for him and Lydia, and he’s beginning to think it’s too late for him and Malia as well, but if it’s too late for him and Scott he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“Since we didn’t get to finish talking yesterday,” Stiles begins.

Scott’s face clouds over like the sky before a storm. “We finished.”

And that’s when Stiles decides to be harsh and blunt and brutal, at least as much as he can. “No, we didn’t. Shut up, McCall, and listen to me.” He takes in a breath and watches Scott’s face go from _angry_ to _confused_ , and it’s another step, and he wants to rejoice but knows it’s too soon now. “I didn’t get to say—I miss you, and I want to go back to being friends, and I’m sorry I—” But he can’t say _I’m sorry I kissed you_ , not yet, so he covers for himself. “—sorry I was a dick to you. And Scott . . . I know we’re leaving for college and all that, but I really am sorry, and I really miss you. You remember when we were kids and you told me you’d be my best friend forever? I want that back.”

“Stiles, we were six.” Scott doesn’t seem particularly maudlin (that one has got to be an SAT word) but there’s still time. “And I know you’re upset, but I don’t know if things can ever go back to normal.”

“Since when did you start being a copy of Derek?” says Stiles disgustedly. “Only cuter and younger, but just as much of an asshole. Okay, maybe things can’t go back to normal,” he rushes on, aware that he just called Scott _cute_ and hoping that he’ll talk fast enough that Scott doesn’t notice, “I know that, I just want to be friends again. I’m sick of fighting with you.”

Scott sticks his lip out like Liam, the same way he used to do when he would plead with Melissa to let him sleep over at Stiles’s house, or when he was trying to get Stiles to try out for lacrosse. “I don’t like it either, but that doesn’t mean we can just move on.”

“That’s the point!” says Stiles emphatically. “We can’t just move on. Dude, we’ve been best friends for a million years. How many times have we fucked up? How many times? And how many times have we picked the pieces up and kept on moving because we lo—” He corrects himself hastily; the conversation is bad enough as a minefield without throwing in his stupid feelings towards Scott. “—because we were best friends. I don’t care if we’ll never see each other again, Scott, I want to be friends again.”

Stiles can’t see for sure, but from where he is it looks like Scott is actually crying. “I’m sorry,” Scott says quietly, and then Stiles knows he is crying, Scott’s actually crying, and that’s something he hasn’t seen in years, even when they were still friends. “I’m sorry, and I’m an asshole, I know.”

“Me too.” Stiles wants to run over and hug him, but he knows it won’t help. “Dude, did you think Derek would be enough of a replacement for me? No one can ever replace Stiles Stilinski.”

He can’t tell, but he think he hears Scott mumble “ _I know._ ” Stiles feels a sudden, wild hope leap in his heart, but he shoves it away, holds it down. “Hey, dude, I really am sorry. This is a blanket apology, okay? Anything I did wrong, this is the sorry for it. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Okay?”

“Fine,” Scott grumbles consentingly, and Stiles wants to grin like a crazy person, because Scott agrees with him. He can see Scott trying to wipe his eyes surreptitiously, and can barely hold back his grin, because Scott agrees with him. Scott agrees with him!—and that means they’re friends again, right?

Yeah, he’s an idiot.

Scott has that hardened look on his face again, closed off and now he’s gone from _confused_ to _determined_ , and Stiles doesn’t know if that’s an improvement, it has to be, because Scott isn’t glaring at him or yelling or saying that they’re no longer friends. It has to be an improvement, because if it wasn’t Stiles wouldn’t have that tightening feeling constricting his chest and making it hard to breathe again, almost like he’s about to have a panic attack, only the reason he can’t breathe is because he doesn’t believe it.

Something on Scott’s face changes then, something most people wouldn’t even notice, but Stiles is well-adapted to reading Scott’s moods and emotions, and he notices Scott’s feelings shift. “Hey, Stiles, are you okay?”

Stiles puts his hand on his throat, feeling for his pulse, reassuring himself he’s still alive. “No, I’m . . . fine.” He closes his hand around his own throat, feeling the slightly irregular beat of his heart pounding in a wild rhythm.

Scott moves closer and puts his hands on Stiles’s shoulders, forcing him upright, and Stiles knows that isn’t helping. “Dude, are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’re going to have a panic attack.”

“I said I’m fine,” Stiles mutters, determinedly not thinking about how comforting it is to have Scott’s hands on his shoulders again, not thinking about how little they’ve touched in the past few months, not thinking about how much he’s missed this caring side of Scott. “I’m fine.”

“All right,” Scott says dubiously, but he moves back, and before Stiles can complain he reaches out again and touches Stiles on the shoulder, a kind of friendly hey-how’s-it-going kind of touch. “I’m kind of . . . late for a date with Kira, I had no idea Lydia was going to start all this, so I’ll text you late, okay?”

Stiles does not say “Oh, finally you’ll text me after months of me texting you and getting no reply.” He does not say “How would I know you’re actually going to text me this time?” He does not say “Yeah, and Derek will decide to smile for once.” Instead, he nods in agreement and says, “Okay,” which is totally something worthy of _The Fault In Out Stars_ , but that’s something else he isn’t going to mention.

“I’ll have to unblock you, sorry,” Scott admits, and Stiles does not shout _You blocked me on your phone after_ how _many years of texting and calling each other?_ He nods again, then Scott sighs and starts back towards his car, and Stiles is just standing there watching him drive away again.

 

***

 

He doesn’t have a ride, because Lydia left, so he has to walk, but it isn’t that far. When Stiles gets home, he hurries to his room and flops on his bed, watching his phone, waiting for Scott to text. While he’s waiting, he texts Lydia, since she left and didn’t get to hear the conversation, and Stiles is giddy with excitement and wants to tell someone, that someone being Scott, but since that isn’t realistic (he’s told Scott everything since they were six years old, but telling Scott _this_ wouldn’t be exactly appropriate) he texts Lydia.

 

 **To** : Lydia

lyds guess what i talked 2 scott & we r kinda friends again i guess but idk so call me tomorrow k?

 

Approximately five seconds after the message sends, he gets a reply from Lydia, but it’s just a smiling emoticon and the word _good_ , which Stiles thinks is rather appropriate, given the fact that his entire self is screaming _good_ at the top of its metaphorical lungs.

Scott texts him fifteen minutes later, and Stiles hesitates before opening the message, because he’s slightly worried about what it’ll say—he hasn’t texted Scott in so long, Scott hasn’t texted him in longer, and what would he possibly say after so much silence?

The text is only two words long, but it’s enough to make Stiles grin like an idiot and stare at his phone in euphoric excitement for several minutes longer than a single text message should deserve.

 

 **From** : Scott

im sorry


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, sorry for the delay and the short chapter, I moved recently so my life has temporarily dissolved into a mess while I try to find everything again and repeatedly misplace the cutlery. I will be writing more soon, and we might even figure out why Lydia always has so many text messages. (Hint: it has something to do with college. Doesn’t everything these days.)
> 
> Second, I know some of you commented on Stiles kind of glossing over the fact that Scott blocked him from his phone. I reread what I had written and it did indeed seem as if Stiles was ignoring that fact a bit more than he would, so rest assured the issue is not over. However, I would like to present the fact that Stiles was a) confused and disoriented, trying to figure out his feelings and emotions, and also b) surprised and happy that Scott was agreeing so readily to re-becoming friends. So he might not have been entirely on top of things, so to speak.
> 
> Third and last of all, thank you to everyone who has been reading this story, who has commented with nice things (or anything else, honestly), who has left kudos, who has recommended the story on a fic recs list . . . I appreciate each and every one of you, and you are all better friends than Scott McCall at the beginning of this story (but he gets better, don’t worry).
> 
> (Next in Mochi gets sentimental: THANK YOU EVERYONE YOU RULE AND I AM SO GRATEFUL THAT PEOPLE READ WHAT I WRITE IN GENERAL YES THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH OKAY THAT’S ENOUGH NOW BYE)
> 
> x Mochi

The morning dawns bright and clear, piercing rays of sunlight invading Stiles’s personal space and making him extremely uncomfortable—seriously, he thinks as he struggles to get ready, why has no one told the sun to leave him alone? The sun could take a leaf out of Scott’s book sometime.

 _Sunday_ , he thinks, _movie night with Kira_ , and something that he didn’t even know was broken starts to heal inside him. Stiles forces himself to get dressed and stumble into the kitchen for toast and pop tarts, because he’s incredibly healthy and responsible, and he’s going to die in college if he keeps this up. He realises with a shock that he has the entire day in front of him to do whatever he wants to do, and now that he and Scott are apparently reconciled (SAT word alert again, and Stiles gives himself a mental pat on the back) they should be able to do things together again, right?

Of course, he knows it isn’t that easy, and as he starts to send Scott a text message he stops, thinking _bastard blocked me from his goddamn phone_ , then wipes the thought away as if his mind was an imaginary whiteboard and writes a new one: _he promised to add me back on his phone_. That’s the kind of thing he’s supposed to be focusing on, but _Scott blocked him from his phone_ it’s hard to do when _we’ve been friends for twelve years and he blocked me from his phone_ it keeps nagging at him, a tiny reminder that _he blocked me from his phone who knows what he’ll do next_ everything isn’t the same any more, no matter how much his inner monologue wants it to go back to normal.

So he texts Scott as soon as he’s done with breakfast, a simple message (“hey can we hang out today if u r not busy”) and nothing like what they used to have; but there’s no way, as Scott said, that they can go back to their old friendship, their old careless relationship without all the shit that’s been created by their friend-breakup.

 

 **From** : Scott

duh :P

 

But that, that feels more like the old Scott, and Stiles feels the inexhaustible hope that maybe his best friend, former best friend, whatever he is now, hasn’t changed as much as it seemed at first (and second, and third, and fourth, and thousandth) glance, because he’s been sneaking a lot of glances at Scott recently.

Stiles can’t focus while he’s waiting for Scott, afraid to text him again, worried about what they’ll say, what they’ll do, what’ll happen to them; worried about anything and everything that has to do with Scott. He’s always been so worried about Scott, and not without reason, but Scott’s always been too caring and kind for his own good. While Stiles knows perfectly well that he doesn’t have an actual physical monopoly on Scott, he can sometimes act like it, and maybe, just maybe, that isn’t a bad thing.

Scott’s car pulls into the driveway a quarter of an hour later, while Stiles is pacing the kitchen and wondering if it would be socially acceptable to call Lydia and scream at her, or if it would be too much of a metaphorical pun that she would kill him over the phone line.

Stiles hurries outside while trying not to look like he’s hurrying outside and failing completely, suddenly worried about what he’s going to say and what he’s going to do and what _Scott_ is going to say and do and _stop it, Stilinski, this isn’t helping_ , but Stiles can’t make himself calm down.

Scott stops the car and gets out and starts to walk towards the porch, hands in his pockets and shoulders scrunched up like he’s uncomfortable; Stiles would know, he’s seen Scott’s discomforted posture enough times to understand exactly what it looks like, but he isn’t paying attention to that, he’s noticing how Scott’s eyes are downcast and his hair is falling in his face, and Stiles blurts out, “Why the fuck did you block me from your phone?”

In retrospect (he’s killing it with the SAT words) it was not the best thing to say to Scott, not when their friendship is so newly recovered, so fragile and delicate; it was not the best thing to be thinking about, although Stiles knows it has to be said at some point, and Scott sure as hell wouldn’t be the one to bring it up; in the end all of his random musings about why he did the thing boil down to _I’m an idiot_ , and Stiles decides to leave that there on the table for the moment.

“I mean, I mean, well, actually that’s exactly what I mean,” Stiles stammers, shifting awkwardly; Scott has frozen in his tracks (dog jokes, anyone?) and has a very rabbit-caught-in-headlights sort of expression on his face, although Scott’s not supposed to be the rabbit, he’s supposed to be the thing that eats the rabbit. Raw, because he still doesn’t have a goddamn werewolf oven. “You blocked me from your phone, Scott, why did you do that? Was it really about me kissing you?”

Okay then, so he can say it out loud now, the fact that he kissed Scott and Scott rejected him. Stiles is used to rejection (there’s Lydia Martin and all), but somehow, coming from his best friend for life, it hurts a hell of a lot more than it did coming from Lydia, even if she was his longtime love since god knows when. Scott has been his friend since before god knows when, since before he even knew who the gorgeous creature Lydia Martin was, since they were both too young to even know what _being friends_ even constituted, much less _falling in love_ , because, goddammit, they were _six_.

Scott blushes a little, but it only means a faint pink flush appears on the upper half of his cheeks. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s a werewolf thing or a Scott thing, but ever since Scott got bit he’s gotten even more attractive. Like the freaking hot girl Stiles doesn’t want to think about. “No, I just . . . I don’t know, Stiles. It was kind of because of something Derek said—”

“Derek?” Stiles practically shouts, not even bothering to hide his jealousy, knowing how cliché it is to have an argument on the front steps for all the world to hear. Well, at least he can check that one off his bucket list. “You listen to Derek and you won’t listen to _me_ , what the _hell_.”

Scott’s cheeks go even redder, which has an odd effect on his darker skin. “No, no, all he said was that maybe you were . . . I don’t know, man, I really don’t know. I guess I just thought I needed to move on, and I guess that meant everything.”

And there it is again, the dreaded threat of _moving on_ , the words that Stiles abhors (SAT word) and wishes with a passion that he could smite from the face of the earth. He doesn’t want to move on, not from Scott, not when Scott’s standing on the driveway with his hands in his pockets and his tousled hair falling in his eyes, looking so pathetic and so much like the best friend that Stiles started to fall in love with so long ago, no, he can’t move on from any of that.

“I,” Stiles says slowly, “am sick of your bullshit.”

Scott doesn’t laugh. “I know, and I’m so fucking sorry, I just didn’t know what I was doing. I think it started as a kind of let’s-make-the-eventual-separation-hurt-less and kind of progressed into a well-this-is-easier-than-staying-friends-so-let’s-let-it-stay-that-way.”

“That’s the whole point of being best friends, McCall,” Stiles says, noting absently that his voice is suddenly choking up without his permission, the traitor. “Yeah, being friends is hard, but the whole point of it is that you stay friends anyway! You were my best friend since the day we met in the goddamn sandbox when we were kids. And sometimes, you asshat, it’s a bit difficult to stay friends with you—like when you got bit and didn’t tell me, or ran off with Allison and didn’t like me, or hid in someone’s abandoned house and didn’t talk to me, or whenever the hell you want! But I stayed friends with you through all that, because I wanted to. I wanted to, and it was so hard to do, but I did it anyway, so don’t you dare make this be about me.”

Stiles stops his rant and glares at Scott, who looks taken aback, and also infinitely regretful. “Okay, I’m an asshole,” he says finally, taking his hands out of his pockets and pushing his hair back so that he can look at Stiles more clearly, “and shit, Stilinski, I’m still sorry.”

“That’s not enough,” Stiles says, throwing his arms over his face and hiding himself in the sleeves of his hoodie, his voice slightly muffled. “You still have to buy me pizza and confess you were a terrible friend and that you love me more than Derek.”

Perhaps not the best time to use the l-word around Scott, especially not now, but it’s too late for Stiles to take it back, and so he peers out of his arm-nest and watches. Scott laughs faintly, as if he doesn’t want to be overheard. “Of course I like you more than Derek.”

“Good,” Stiles says petulantly, filing away Scott’s use of “like” in lieu of “love” to dwell on later. “But you still have to buy me pizza, and watch as I eat it and don’t offer you any, so let’s go.”

“To the pizza place,” Scott says in a tone of resignation, but it’s _familiar_ resignation, so Stiles doesn’t mind, because it means that things are starting to heal again between the two of them. Back to the times when Stiles is an idiot and Scott is resigned to that fact. He relishes the thought, practically basks in the comfort of it. Scott’s back.

“To the pizza place,” Stiles agrees, and he nearly runs to the passenger side of Scott’s car and gets in even before Scott does, eagerly looking out through the window, still unsure about what is going to happen, but looking forward to it for once.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has kind of a messed-up relationship with his best friend, does he not? Here’s your reward and apology for not posting, although I’m sure it isn’t as good as an apology pizza.
> 
> Stay tuned for next time, when Stiles finally comes to terms with how he feels and Kira and Malia, to put it lightly, freak. Also we might find out exactly what’s wrong between Scott and Kira, if anything . . . yeah. Fun times.
> 
> ANOTHER NOTE: I don’t know exactly how the American dollar system works (I actually had to look it up), so I’m sorry if I got something wrong. I literally had to research how much a pizza cost, and subsequently have ads about pizzas popping up everywhere. Oh, the sacrifices I make for literature. Anyway, if I screwed up too badly, please feel free to correct me at any time. I won’t bite (much).
> 
> x Mochi

They go to the pizza place, not talking at all in the car, and Stiles doesn’t care if it’s the middle of the day, because it’s become a tradition that when one of them gets offended, the offender has to take the offended out for pizza and buy it for them. It started as a stupid little joke in their junior year, then developed into a blanket cure of sorts. Stiles is glad that they’re going out for pizza, and not just because he really kind of does want to eat some. They park in a too-small spot and argue about toppings while they make their way inside. Scott holds the door open for him.

Stiles walks right up to the counter; there’s a young woman who looks to be in her early twenties there, and when he and Scott stand there, she looks up and smiles at them. “Hello, I would like a full pizza,” Stiles says, “with cheese, and pepperoni, but not mushrooms because mushrooms are disgusting, and make it large and as soon as possible, please and thank you.”

The woman looks at Scott with a raised eyebrow, and Scott, to his credit, takes it in stride. “I’ll pay for it because I’m a terrible friend, please don’t ask us questions, just make the pizza.”

Stiles snickers and watches as Scott forks over money. The pizza ends up being twenty-three dollars and thirteen cents, tax included, and it gives him an odd sort of pleasure as he watched Scott reach into his pocket for his crumpled bills and hand them to the woman. He tells her to keep the change, and Stiles wonders if something’s different, but Scott turns to him with an embarrassed smile and Stiles knows it’s all right for the moment.

They eat pizza in a dingy booth near the window, straight from the box, Stiles reaching in with his fingers greasy and covered in cheese, and Scott tosses chunks of crust into the air and tries to catch them in his mouth, succeeding only a little less than half the time. Stiles traces patterns on the cardboard, and Scott folds his arms so that his nails dig into the skin of his biceps. The amount of pizza slowly diminishes (“How can you manage to eat _six_ pieces of pizza, Stilinski?” “I have skills, McCall, don’t deny it!” “I never said I did . . .”) until there’s only one piece left, and a greenish pepper that may or may not be a jalapeño, Stiles doesn’t want to find out.

Scott leans back in the booth and unfolds his arms, either relaxed or uncomfortable; the two emotions manifest in remarkably similar ways. He starts to reach for the last piece, but Stiles smacks his hand away. “No way, McCall. It’s mine.”

“You’ve had nearly the entire pizza, and I’ve only had one piece,” Scott complains, turning on his puppy-dog eyes that no one can really resist. Stiles reminds himself that he is a strong independent adult, but gets stuck on the first adjective.

“That’s the point of a pity pizza, and apology pizza, that I eat it and you watch and suffer so that you may know the pain that you have caused me,” Stiles says imperiously, slowly bringing the pizza to his mouth and taking a bite. “’S not m’ fault y’ messed up,” he adds, with his mouth full of food, his ability to be understood on a level low enough to rival Liam’s.

Scott knows what he’s saying, though, the same way he always used to understand when Stiles couldn’t articulate how he felt and stuttered and stammered his way through elementary school. Maybe Stiles is just feeling a little sentimental, or maybe he’s really falling hopelessly hard for his longtime best friend, but something’s changed, and it isn’t the lighting.

“So what’re your plans for the rest of the day, or is it just a signature Stiles Stilinski relax day?” asks Scott, eyeing the possibly-jalapeño pepper with a considering look which makes Stiles feel slightly terrible about eating the entirety of his apology pizza. Only slightly.

“I’m going to watch a movie with your girlfriend,” Stiles says grumpily, irritated because the old Scott would have known exactly what he was going to do or where he was going to be every second of his life—but maybe he needs to realise that the old Scott is absolutely not the Scott that’s sitting across from his staring at a jalapeño pepper. “We’ve been doing that for like three months now.”

Scott shrugs but doesn’t look extremely abashed (SAT word) for his forgetfulness. “That sounds cool. I haven’t actually had a chance to talk to Kira since the last pack meeting, so tell her I said hi, will you?”

Hi? “Yeah, sure,” Stiles says. Hi? Scott and Kira have been a couple for years now (weirdly enough), Stiles has been privy to almost every embarrassing sexual detail that Scott can nervously recount over the phone, knows more about their relationship than either of them probably do. And Scott knows that, so why did he only ask Stiles to tell Kira _hi_? “Yeah, do you want me to tell her . . . anything else?”

“No,” Scott says shortly, and Stiles knows the subject is closed. “Are you done with your apology pizza? I kinda want to leave, the ambience is freaking me out.”

 _Ambience_ , Stiles thinks, is another motherfreaking SAT word. Suddenly he’s sick of them all, and his little game of picking out the SAT words he says or other people say seems pathetic and pointless. He isn’t even going to take the SAT again. “Yeah, of course, we can go whenever you want, I don’t mind.”

Scott nods and they get up. Scott takes the box back to the woman at the counter, and thanks her for the pizza. Stiles deliberately holds the door this time, but Scott doesn’t seem to notice. Scott, Stiles thinks, is certainly polite and courteous, but he doesn’t know when to stop shutting his mouth. Stiles wouldn’t mind him noticing a little more for a change.

They drive to the Stilinski’s house, still mainly in silence, although Stiles turns on the radio and finds a static-filled pop station playing an upbeat bubblegum song. He’s tempted to sing along—the old Stiles would, with dance moves as well—but he isn’t sure how the new Scott will take it, and after all, he’s supposed to be an adult.

“Hey, isn’t it weird that we’re adults now?” says Stiles, because he can’t keep his mouth shut. Unlike Scott, who doesn’t know when to say things, Stiles doesn’t know when not to say things. “It kinda feels like just yesterday I wasn’t an adult. I don’t know.”

Scott doesn’t take his eyes off the road in front of them. Stiles remembers when they took driver’s ed together, and Scott couldn’t stop his hands from shaking because he was so scared of driving. He adamantly refused to admit it later, mainly because Stiles chose to bring it up in front of Allison and several other girls, but Stiles still remembers. “Yeah . . . I never thought I would make it to eighteen. I don’t know why. I just thought that for a while. It seemed like so far off, but then it happened and I don’t know what to think about it.”

“Me too. I was talking with Lydia about it, and Malia too,” Stiles says thoughtfully. It’s been so long since he’s had a heart-to-heart conversation with Scott that he doesn’t know what the taboos are any more. “I think one day I kind of just woke up and realised _oh shit I’m an adult_ and then I was.”

“That hasn’t happened for me yet,” Scott says in a low voice, turning onto Stiles’s street. “It’s just so weird that I’m eighteen, and I’m leaving for college in the fall—a different college than Kira, and you,” and for a moment his voice breaks, then he recovers himself, “and I don’t know if I want everything to be over.”

Stiles hums noncommittally and watches the houses flicker by out through the window. Scott pulls into the Stilinskis’ driveway, but Stiles doesn’t get out of the car, and Scott doesn’t say anything about his tenacity.

“I think that was part of what went into the whole decision not to talk—to you,” Scott says finally, twisting his fingers around the steering wheel. “I know eventually we’re gonna have to leave each other, Stiles, and I really didn’t want that to happen. I really don’t want it to happen now. I think I just wanted, ah, _to sever ties_ with you in the easiest way possible, so that it didn’t have to hurt that much. But then I think it ended up hurting more than anything, and I’m sorry about that. You’re still my best friend, if that’s okay.”

Stiles wants to shout, _Yes, of course it’s okay, I wouldn’t ever want it not to be okay, please forgive me_ , but instead he manages to get out, “You better buy me a lot of apology pizza before I forgive you completely, McCall.”

“Fine,” Scott says briskly. “You, me, and the pizza place after school on Monday. I don’t care if you have other plans. Meet me in the parking lot and I’ll drive because you scare me when you do.”

He isn’t sure, but Stiles thinks Scott has just asked him out; if one of them was a girl, it would be taken that way, but he doesn’t know what the protocol is for two boys, especially when he’s still trying to figure out how he feels and has to deal with the fact that _Malia exists, and so does Kira, and they’re both amazing, and the both of us have girlfriends, how am I supposed to deal with this_ he doesn’t know how Scott feels about anything.

“Of course,” Stiles says finally, then gets out of the car, waves at Scott, and hurries towards the door before his shell can break down and Scott can see how much he’s trying to hide on the inside of him, the stuff he doesn’t want anyone to see, much less Scott, when everything’s gotten so complicated recently.

Scott gets out of the car as well; Stiles can hear the door slam shut, which means Scott is hurrying after him. “Stiles, wait—wait a minute.”

Stiles stops and turns to face Scott, biting his lip and clenching his fists behind his back so that Scott won’t notice how much he’s trying not to scream wordlessly into the sky. “What is it?”

“I just,” and Scott holds out his arms slightly, an expression of awkwardness on his face, tilting his head in that hopeful puppy look that no one can resist either—in general no one can resists Scott when he acts like a puppy—and shifting his shoes on the driveway, “we’re friends now, so can I, can I have a hug?”

Screaming is becoming a more alluring option, especially since Stiles knows Scott has no idea what’s going on. Of course, of freaking course he wants to hug him, of course, of course, of _course_. “Yeah, sure,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, and then Scott steps forwards and wraps his arms around him.

Stiles practically melts into Scott’s touch, trying not to think about anything, and to focus on the simple sensation of being touched by Scott again, and in the middle of thinking this it occurs to him that Kira is probably going to kill him. Somehow, that doesn’t do enough to deter him as it should.


	9. Chapter 9

Kira doesn’t kill him when she first shows up at his house, although she looks extremely badass with a leather jacket and a ponytail, her dark blue jeans cut off just above her knees. Unlike Stiles, she looks like she actually feels like an adult, and has the confidence and beauty to show it. Stiles is jealous of her for more reasons than the fact she happens to be dating his (newly reappointed) best friend.

“What’s the movie this time?” asks Kira after Stiles lets her in and they go to his room and curl up together on his bed. It’s a completely non-sexual sort of thing, and Stiles is grateful for that. He doesn’t want Kira’s and his relationship to turn into something like the one he has with Lydia, where every time he looks at her he remembers how it felt to be with her, where even when they’re friends he can’t look her in the eye without thinking about how things used to be.

He doesn’t want to end up that way with Kira, but the path that things with Scott seem to be taking might lead to something worse, especially if Stiles doesn’t figure out what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

“I thought we would watch something I haven’t seen, so Netflix,” Stiles says as he turns on his laptop and settles it on his lap. Kira pulls one of his blankets over herself, and leans her head back against a pillow. She tugs the blanket up to her chin and growls, her eyes briefly flashing gold. Stiles almost falls off the bed. “Holy shit, Kira, don’t do that!”

Kira giggles and her eyes return to normal. “Sorry. I figured out I can do that on my own now. It’s pretty cool. I didn’t mean to freak you out.” She ducks her head in apology, but she’s still smiling. “Actually I kind of did mean to freak you out. Sorry.”

Stiles decides that for the sake of his dignity he’ll let that one slide. He goes to Netflix’s webpage and hands the computer to Kira, pushing it onto her knees. “You pick this time, something I haven’t seen.”

Kira purses her lips and narrows her eyes while she scrolls absently through the lists of movies. “I don’t know . . . not something that’s a lame werewolf movie, like last time . . . how about we just go with this?” It’s a semi-dramatic action movie that Stiles has never heard of before. “I know nothing about it, it’s just the first thing I saw. Good?”

“Good,” Stiles says, settling back under the blanket and resting the computer on their legs. Kira clicks on the movie and Stiles leans his head against the headboard of his bed, thinking about Scott and how sorry he is that Kira will have to be dragged into the whole mess at all.

 

***

 

The movie is about halfway over (it turns out to be moderately decent, with a relatively endearing lead and a stereotypical villain) when there’s a scratching noise. It’s dark outside, Kira turned on the light a while ago, and Stiles is suddenly worried that something else is outside the window.

“Sometimes I really hate living in Beacon Hills,” Stiles says as he gets up and walks cautiously to the window, peering out into the night, “it’s where all the weird shit goes down—okay, I don’t see anything, do you think I should open it?”

“It might just be Derek,” Kira says doubtfully, but her fingers are clenched around the edges of her jacket, breathing slowly like she’s trying not to burst into flames. Stiles knows she’s literally trying not to burst into flames.

“He hasn’t been around since,” Stiles hesitates, “since Scott and I, um, made up. I think I scared him off after the last demon thing with Theo—oh screw it, I’m gonna open the window. Just . . . catch on fire if anything happens to me, okay?”

Kira nods nervously and closes the computer, sliding her legs out from under the covers. “Be careful,” she says quietly.

Stiles scoffs as he slowly raises the latch. “You know me, when am I ever not care— _holy shit Malia what the hell are you doing here!_ ”

Malia pokes her head in the window, her eyes suddenly glowing. “I’m sorry,” she says in a soft growl, not sounding sorry in the least, “but I need to talk to you, Stiles. Right now.”

Stiles looks back at Kira, and she shrugs. _What is it_ , he chastises himself, argues in his head, _what is it about werethings and their inability to use the door, and at normal hours? Derek, Scott, now Malia?_ He turns to Malia and sighs heavily, because hey, when your girlfriend shows up at your window in the middle of the night, what else can you do but to follow her wherever she wants you to go? “Yeah, sure, come in.”

“Come _out_ ,” Malia corrects, and vanishes from view.

Stiles groans, but starts climbing out the window obediently. “Of course it would be me who has to crawl out the window, it wouldn’t hurt to use the freaking door for once, Malia, whyever the hell you decided to visit in the middle of the night—I thought Lydia gave you a phone, you could have just _texted_ me or someth—what are we doing?”

Malia stops just underneath a large tree and laces her hands on her hips, tilting her head to one side. “You smell like Scott,” she says matter-of-factly, shaking her head in a quick motion which sends her bangs cascading over her forehead.

“Well, yeah, I hung out with him earlier,” Stiles says guiltily. He doesn’t know why he would be guilty—he hasn’t done anything wrong, not yet, not really—but he still can’t help looking down to avoid her eyes and trying to slow his heart rate so that she doesn’t pick up on anything. “We’re kind of, hanging out again, like I don’t know. Yeah.”

“Friends,” Malia says firmly. Stiles isn’t sure if she’s giving him a warning or just making a statement in agreement with his. He decides he doesn’t want to know or to find out, and instead shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks the ground.

“Is that why you’re here? I mean, to talk to me about Scott? Or is there another reason?”

Malia lowers her gaze and sighs, which sounds almost like she’s growling at herself. “I’m glad you’re part of the pack again. I don’t want to lose you.”

It’s these little things she says that make Stiles feel like he’s the villain, when he’s thinking about Scott in the ways he’s only supposed to think about Malia, and then she drops a freaking bomb about how she doesn’t want to lose him, it’s then that he hates himself, because he can never be unfaithful to Malia, gorgeous, amazing, beautiful, wonderful Malia, he just can’t do it.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” Stiles says, and it’s so cliché but still true, he _doesn’t_ want to lose her, “whatever happens,” so he takes the steps forwards and closes the distance and kisses her, because he’s scared he’s forgetting how things used to be, and he doesn’t ever want that to happen to him.

Malia kisses back like she’s fire and he’s the ocean, and she’s desperate to put out her light; she wraps her arms around his neck and drags him with her, forcing them both to lose themselves in the feelings of touch and comfort, wild with ecstasy, and it’s almost like Scott, almost, but Stiles can’t control himself and he can’t stop thinking about how, although the kiss with Scott was quick, it felt like this.

So he pulls back, because he shouldn’t be thinking about Scott when he’s in the middle of kissing Malia, shouldn’t be thinking about Scott at all. “If we get to do this, I’m glad to be back in the pack too,” he says, breathless, because Malia kisses like she wants to suck out his soul and he hasn’t yet recovered. “I missed you.”

She grins wildly and shakes the hair out of her eyes again. “I know.” Then she’s gone, just a flash of teeth and eyes, lithe and graceful, vanishing into the blackness beneath the trees, running into the night like—well, like a coyote.

 

***

 

He and Kira don’t talk about it, thankfully, and Kira leaves shortly after—“I’m sorry, but it’s late, and I should go so my parents don’t kill me”—and he falls into bed, nearly choking on everything he’s been trying so hard to repress.

Sleep washes over him like a black curtain that’s been left to collect dust for too long, taking him coughing and blinking against the grey swarm, but it takes him just as easily, and he dreams as usual about his best friend.

_He’s twelve, and he and Scott have just been dropped off Beacon Hills Middle School by way of Melissa McCall’s carpooling, holding brand-new backpacks and sporting fresh sets of both clothes and supplies. He’s nervous, but Scott doesn’t look nervous, so there’s no way Stiles is going to let any anxiety show. His reputation is already that of the weak kid, the pitied kid, the scared kid, the kid whose mom died, and he doesn’t want anything added to that list._

_“We’re in middle school,” Scott says, in a hushed voice of something like awe. He’s clutching the straps of his backpack so hard his knuckles have turned white. “Everything’s so colourful, Stiles.”_

_It is; the clothes are different, the signs are different, the posters and tables and classrooms and accessories and things are all different, coloured in bright hues that his eyes revolt at. The girls are wearing less clothing, Stiles notices, but it’s all pastel and shocking. Even the shoes are neon yellows and reds. The plaid shirt he and his dad picked out, “’specially for middle school,” suddenly seems plain in comparison._

_“It’s okay,” Stiles says to comfort Scott, although he’s also saying it to himself. He doesn’t want Scott to be scared, because if Scott is scared there’s no chance at all that’s Stiles won’t be. “Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.”_

_Scott almost laughs, but in the middle of it he coughs and shivers a little. He lets go of his backpack with one hand and grabs Stiles’s fingers, threading his between them. Stiles reacts automatically, holding on to Scott’s hand, glad for the reassurance of his touch. Scott takes a deep breath and starts to step forward, pulling Stiles along with him. “Okay, let’s go.”_

_Stiles follows obediently, their hands swinging between them as they walk to their first classroom. It’s still scary, but somehow, with Scott next to him and literally holding his hand, it’s not so bad._

At the time, there was no teasing, no bullying, no whispers of “faggot” or “homo” in the locker rooms, no cruel jokes or taunting, snide looks. They were simply two best friends, looking out for each other, in a time when no one else was looking out for them.

Stiles wants that feeling back.


	10. Chapter 10

He wakes up the next morning with the feeling of a hangover, like he’s had too much to drink (a feeling he now unfortunately knows more about than he would like) and stumbles into the kitchen to make Pop-Tarts, because every responsible adult should eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast.

The Sheriff isn’t there, but there’s a note on the counter (seriously, a note? he thinks, not a text? Weird) which Stiles read through a mouthful of cherry filling:

 

** Stiles, **

** I had to go to work early. My phone isn’t working, so I had to leave this instead. I hope you have a nice day at school. Hopefully no more trouble this year (fingers crossed). **

** Love, Dad **

 

“Ha, ha,” Stiles mutters at he finishes his breakfast. He can hear tyres crunching on the ground and guesses that Lydia is already here, ready to take him to school. He dashes up the stairs, brushes his teeth in less than thirty seconds, races into his room to grab his books and supplies, and makes it outside in just under five minutes.

Lydia is standing against her car with her arms folded, her long hair blowing in the slight wind, wearing shorts and a tank top. Stiles thinks absently about how much more he would appreciate the sight had he and Lydia not been a truly terrible idea as a romance (but a wonderful idea as a friendship, thankfully). She straightens up when she sees him hurrying towards her. “You’re late, Stilinski.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Stiles says breathlessly as he piles into the shotgun seat, “I overslept. Sorry about that. It’s not like they can make me fail if I miss one freaking day of school in the last week—”

“Actually, they can,” Lydia interrupts as she expertly steers out of the driveway, “although I doubt you’d fail senior year because you missed one day. You’re no idiot, and you do well in class, and everything like that.”

Stiles allows himself a moment to ponder over the simple fact that Lydia Martin just might be the single most amazing human being in all of existence. “I failed the chemistry final for this year though.”

“You missed the final exam because you and Scott were having a movie marathon in your bedroom,” Lydia says dryly, and Stiles flinches. He only missed the final exam for chem because he and Scott were watching  _Star Trek_ , and during the course of the watching Scott decided they should at least study for the exam, and in the middle of that Stiles decided to be a complete and total idiot. Despite the fact that Lydia refuses to call him an idiot.

He really isn’t looking forward to the end of school, or the end of anything in general, unless it’s the end of being alone and pathetically helpless while the world seems to ignore him.  _Self pity indeed._

Lydia checks her phone while they’re still on the road, and Stiles is tempted to call her out on it—if she had been Scott, he would have—but he catches a glimpse of her unread texts (74) and unread emails (32) and voicemails (21) and missed calls (69) and keeps his mouth shut tightly. Whatever reason she has must be important—he knows Lydia is no idiot either, and if she has a reason, then it must be the right thing.

 

***

 

They pull into the parking lot at 7:49, which is later than Stiles likes to arrive at school, but still early enough that he has time to comfortably find his classroom before the first period bell rings. He thinks he sees Liam and some of his other, more human friends, Mason included, and grins when he sees them following Liam as he walks—he’s proud of Liam, babywolf, whatever. Malia is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Kira, although that doesn’t mean much. Lydia disappears almost at once, and he doesn’t see Scott. The groups of highschoolers meander languidly to their classes like there’s nothing left but time. Stiles doesn’t know if it’s terrifying or familiar, or maybe a bit of both.

 

***

 

He starts walking towards his homeroom, not really paying attention to where he’s going, because the lower grades (or, as Scott used to call them affectionately, “underclassmen”) automatically part their groups to allow him to pass by them. Maybe it’s just part of being a senior, but he likes it a lot. For once it feels like he’s in control, and that’s something he has never gotten enough of in his life. Stiles is almost starting to feel good about the day, when— _of course he isn’t looking where he’s going_ —he bumps into Scott.

Scott grabs Stiles by the shoulders to steady himself, his eyes suddenly wide with surprise. “Stiles, what are you doing here?”

Stiles frowns at him. “Uh, this is my school. I  _go_ here. What, should I not have come to school? Something big gonna happen? Crazy werewolf shit going down in Beacon Hills High? What did I miss this time?”

“No, no,” Scott says quickly, “just, um, never mind. I’m so fucking tired.”

Stiles thinks of the first time Scott said the f-word—they were ten, and they’d overheard Melissa say it on the phone. At the time, it had seemed like a big secret, something dangerous, only for grown-ups.

_“I dare you to say it,” Stiles said, barely containing his laughter. “No, I double-dog dare you! You can’t back out on a double-dog dare, Scott. It’s against the law, I think, and then my dad will have to come and put you in jail.”_

_ Scott shoved his shoulder and pressed further back against the wall. “I’m gonna get in so much trouble when my mom finds out, okay? Even if I’m in jail because of your dad.” _

_ “Scaredy cat,” Stiles whispered into his ear, then stuffed his fist into his mouth to stifle the giggles. “Scaredy cat, you’re gonna back out on a double-dog dare . . .” _

_ “Yeah, yeah, fine,” Scott said grumpily, “I guess I’ll say it—um . . . okay . . . fuck. Happy now?” he added, as Stiles dissolved into laughter again. “Okay, but now you have to say it too, or else you’re not brave enough to do it and you’re a wimp.” _

_ “’Course I’m brave enough,” Stiles said defiantly, “but I don’t wanna get in trouble.” _

_ Scott’s face showed complete and utter betrayal, coupled with righteous anger. “Dude, I said it! I said it, so then you have to say it too! Don’t be stupid, we’re best friends, that’s how it happens—mom said so.” _

_ Stiles wrinkled his nose. “Fine—fuck. There, I said it! Stop laughing at me!” _

_Scott grabbed his arms and they both collapsed to the floor in a heap, choking on their suppressed laughter, arms and legs in a tangle, until Melissa came out from the kitchen and found them there, still trying not to make any noise_ .

But now Scott uses curse words like everyday speech, and their childhood innocence (what a poetic piece of shit he is) is a thing of, well, the past. “So . . . um,” Stiles says, desperately chiding himself for being so unintelligent, so inarticulate, “how are things with Kira?” It’s a simple best-friend question, the kind they would ask each other all the time before, the type that Stiles should have no problem asking, the type that Scott should have no problem answering.

It isn’t that easy.

Scott avoids his eyes, taps his fingers against his binder, which he’s holding to his chest, shifts his shoe so that it makes a squeaking noise on the polished floor. “Well, we broke up.”

There are many possible responses Stiles can think to say to Scott, such as  _When and where and why did you do this?_ or  _I thought you were going to do the long-distance thing for college_ , or  _Did she dump you or did you dump her because I really want to know_ , or  _No wonder she seemed weird_ , but the one which he chooses to say is more along the lines of, “But you guys loved each other!”

Probably not the best thing to say when he’s starting to realise he might finally have a fraction of a chance, but hey, in his defence it is a bit of a shock. Scott and Kira were almost voted “Cutest Couple” in the senior yearbook, and the year before they came in third in the category of “Most Likely To Get Married.” Stiles’s reaction is not without reason, no matter how idiotic it is.  _There, Lydia. You were wrong. So wrong_ .

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, although it sounds halfhearted even to Stiles, “but we’re leaving soon to go to different colleges, and we’ll probably never see each other again . . . I know we were going to do ‘the long-distance thing,’ as you said, but neither of us think it’s really going to work. So we talked a lot about it, and decided to end it before. I think she called it ‘pre-emptive breaking up’ or something like that. Anyway. I though I’d be really sad—I mean, I really did love Kira—but it just makes sense. Didn’t she tell you that? I know you guys hang out on the weekends.”

Part of Stiles worries terribly about this side of Scott, the side that would do something like this to  _Kira_ , who is possibly the sweetest kitsune on the planet, and the fact that if even Kira couldn’t remain in a relationship with Scott of any sort through college, who’s to say that Stiles could do any better? He then demonstrates his remarkably tenacious (another fucking SAT word) lack of any filter at all and blurts out, “You better not do that to me. I mean, again.”

Scott’s eyes widen and Stiles can almost see his pupils dilate as if in fear, although it might just be his imagination. “I didn’t mean—no, I wouldn’t do that to you, Stiles, you  _know_ I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Yeah?” says Stiles sharply. “Because you already did.” He knows he’s overreacting a little, especially since they’re in the middle of the hallway and anyone could hear, but he’s sick of Scott acting like everything’s just fine. “You left me without any explanation at all, just disappeared out of my life like a fucking mirage, and then wanted to be best buddies again just like that. Well, that isn’t enough, Scott. You fucking blocked me on your fucking phone! How is that okay? It’s not. You didn’t talk to me for months, and then you wanted it to be all better. Bullshit, okay? Complete bullshit.  _You blocked me on your fucking phone_ , McCall, and that  _hurts_ . Yeah, I wanna be friends, but it’s gonna take a lot to make this better. A  _lot_ , and maybe a fucking pizza is the start, but  _that isn’t enough_ .”

Scott blinks in astonishment, mouth slightly open, binder forgotten in his hands. Stiles continues viciously.

“We were friends for twelve fucking years—that isn’t something you get over. This isn’t like a bad relationship you can just forget. You’re my best friend—always have been—and the closest thing to my brother. Hell, you  _are_ my brother. How would it feel to you if I did the same thing, huh? And all that shit about doing it because of college—well, all I can say to that is, I never thought you would let a stupid school and a couple miles separate us. Yeah, I never thought you’d do this. I guess I was wrong.”

Scott hesitates, then pulls his binder closer to his chest and says in a low voice, “Yeah, I guess you were.” Then he turns and walks away, and Stiles normally hates romantic movies and quotes about how your significant other is a part of you, but it definitely feels like a part of him is being torn apart when Scott walks away, and they aren’t even together yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so bad for them both right now . . . ouch.


	11. Chapter 11

School sucks, a _lot_ , so Stiles spends most of his class time doodling wolves on his notebook paper, not even listening to anything the teachers have to say. He doesn’t need to listen, he knows any of the shit they could be telling him. Besides, with exams done and graduation just around the corner, most of the classes consist of review and retribution. There is no real learning done once the finals are finished.

Stiles draws a tiny wolf with red eyes and makes it jump off a cliff. Scott’s a douchebag and he ought to know it. What reason could he possibly have for being such an asshole—breaking up with Kira, yes, _Kira_ ; refusing to admit he’s done anything wrong (well, kinda, but it didn’t count because Stiles is still mad) and not making up for it other than buying the stupid pizza; ignoring him for six freaking months and _blocking him on his fucking phone_ ; treating Stiles like he’s shit and making him feel like it too. Yeah, he’s real happy to have Scott back. Real happy.

He scribbles over the pencilled wolf, then erases it and redraws a coyote (which, given his limited artistic skills, looks like a dog with bigger ears) and makes it smile at him. He adds miniature flowers crushed under its paw like it’s offering him a bouquet, colours it light brown, and then crumples the paper and shoves it in to his pocket without a second glance.

Malia is _definitely_ a better girlfriend than Scott.

Stiles almost chokes on air: Scott isn’t his girlfriend, or his anything, really; comparing Malia to Scott is hardly fair in the first place, although he would have thought that comparing them would end up with Scott coming in first place instead of the were-coyote, but it doesn’t, and that hurts a lot too. The only problem with Malia is that Stiles is no longer sure he likes her just as much as he likes Scott—but Scott is a grade-A douchebag, and Malia is amazing, so there’s the catch.

If only he and Lydia hadn’t been such a disaster.

Stiles decides not to draw anything, wolves, coyotes, or flowers; instead he leans his head on his elbow, ignoring the droning of the teacher he’s supposed to listen to, and starts daydreaming again.

_“I don’t want to spend all the time watching stupid Star Trek,” Scott said grumpily, pausing the scene with one hand and looking at Stiles defiantly. “Okay? If we’re gonna skip school and the chemistry final, then we might as well study or something.”_

_“Why do we need to study for a chemistry final we aren’t even taking?” asked Stiles. It was a good point, he thought to himself proudly, why would they study if they weren’t taking the final? It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to skip school, and so far he wasn’t regretting it, although it did feel weird._

_Scott scowled and shrugged his shoulders. “I . . . don’t know. That is actually a good point. Score one, Stilinski. Score zero, McCall.” It was the last time Scott would call him “Stilinski” with that note of affection in his tone, although Stiles didn’t know that then._

_“Hey, I’m the best,” Stiles crowed victoriously. “But okay, if you wanna study, geek, then let’s study. What do you want to study?”_

_“Chemistry, wasn’t that much obvious?”_

_Stiles shoved Scott’s shoulder and almost knocked him off the bed. “Shut up. Here,” he grabbed their heavy chemistry textbook and started to flip to the page where they had left off in their last class. “Ohhh-kay then. Let ’s see . . . um . . . ‘Out of the following choices, which is the correct name for N2O3: Dinitrogen oxide, dinitrogen dioxide, dinitrogen trioxide, or dinitrogen tetroxide?’ Ooh, tough one.”_

_“Oh, shit,” Scott said. “Dinitrogen di—no, tri—oxide?”_

_“Nope,” Stiles said, peering down at the answer in the book. “Your first guess was correct, it’s dinitrogen dioxide. At least, that’s what the book says, and I’m gonna go with it, because I have no freaking clue what any of these things are.”_

_“Obviously they’re N2O3,” Scott said grumpily, grabbing the book out of Stiles’s hands. “Let me see that, I want to quiz you—okay, here were go. ‘What is not a final product of the overall cell reaction in a hydrogen fuel cell?’ Not a multiple-choice question.”_

_“Um, carbon dioxide, I think,” Stiles said absently, watching the line of Scott’s jaw as he tilted his head to check the answer in the book. His chocolate-brown eyes narrowed as he searched the list of answers, then lifted his head to relay it. Stiles wasn’t listening; he wound his fingers in the threads on the edge of his blanket and blinked rapidly._

_“Stiles?” Scott frowned in confusion and reached forward. “Hey, man, you okay? You look kind of weird. Are you having a panic attack?” His voice was heavy with concern, and Stiles grabbed on to that concern like it was a lifeline, dragging himself out of the water into even deeper depths from which he didn’t know if he could rise. Stupid swimming lessons hadn’t been helpful in the least._

_Scott grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him slightly. “Hey, are you okay? Please say something, you’re really starting to freak me out, I don’t know if I should call someone or do something or what—”_

_“Scott,” Stiles mumbled, knowingly and willingly throwing himself into the fire, “do me a favour and shut up.”_

_He leaned forward and kept his eyes open as he pressed his mouth to Scott’s, forcing them both back until they almost fell off the bed again, letting himself be lost in the metaphorical ocean he was diving into, knowing the world would go to hell for what he was doing and not caring._

_Scott didn’t pull back immediately, hesitating, but then he shoved Stiles in the chest and sat back. His hand hovered near his mouth, but he didn’t move other than that. His puppy-dog eyes were confused and completely adorable. “What the hell were you thinking?”_

_Stiles blinked and forced himself to think; he hadn’t been thinking, how was he supposed to explain that? “I don’t know, I just thought I . . . I wasn’t thinking, okay, I’m sorry.” Part of him wished he’d never done it, but the rest hungered to do it again, and he was having a hard time reconciling those parts within him._

_“Yeah, okay,” Scott said, but he didn’t sound convinced or happy; “I should probably go, my mom is gonna kill me if I don’t show up on time, she’s gonna think I didn’t go to school—I mean I didn’t, but she doesn’t have to know that—well, yeah.”_

_“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, trying not to think the way he was thinking. “Okay, bye.”_

_“Bye,” Scott replied quickly, taking his books from the floor, lingering for only a second in the doorway as if he wanted to say something else, but then he was gone and Stiles didn’t know why he felt so lost without him._

He jerks awake with a start to hear the end-of-period bell ringing; all around him, people are scrambling out of their seats in a hurry to get to lunch. Stiles grabs his backpack and notebook and follows the rush of people moving towards the lunch area and tries to refocus himself on something, anything, other than Scott.

Liam appears out of nowhere and waves ecstatically, holding his lunch over his head and jumping up and down. “Stiles, I gotta eat fast, Mason wanted to show me something,” he explains in a rush as he and Stiles start walking towards a table. Stiles grins and ruffles Liam’s hair affectionately, causing Liam to duck and swat his hand away. “Hey, stop that!”

“Sorry, babywolf,” Stiles says, and Liam growls jokingly before running towards the table where Lydia and Malia are already sitting, talking in low voices. They look up guiltily when Stiles and Liam approach, and Malia shifts over to make room for Stiles to sit next to her.

“Hey, Stilinski,” Lydia says. Stiles glances over at her and notices that her eyes are red and swollen like she’s been crying; he quickly reminds himself not to stare. Lydia smiles weakly and leans over to whisper something into Malia’s ear; Malia nods and leans against Stiles’s shoulder.

Liam shoves half of his sandwich into his mouth and mumbles, “C’n I go ’n see ’ason?”

“Finish your food first, and don’t choke on it,” Lydia says firmly. Liam sticks out his tongue and shoves the rest of his lunch into his mouth as well, causing Lydia to flinch and sigh sadly. “Then you can go see Mason for whatever reason you have.”

“Yay,” Liam says, trying to swallow his entire sandwich at once. He grabs his lunch and takes off at a run. Lydia shakes her head fondly and turns back to the assembled group, smiling slightly. Her cheeks are pale, but she’s surreptitiously wiped her eyes.

Stiles grins at her. “He’s totally the pack baby, and he loves it, although he’ll never admit it.”

Malia yawns and stretches, arching her back and winding around Stiles’s back. Stiles automatically shifts to wrap his arm around her, pulling her in close, revelling in the warmth and comfort of touch, _not thinking about Scott, because Scott is a dick, and Malia is better._

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder and Stiles turns and  _holy shit, why is Scott here, he’s supposed to be gone_ Malia growls low in her throat, her eyes briefly flashing red—Stiles doubts she’s even aware of what’s going on with him and Scott, all she knows is that there’s some tension, and the fact that she’s standing up for Stiles automatically is insanely great. Lydia bites her lip and looks down, but presses her hand against Stiles’s wrist in a comforting gesture.

Scott looks extremely awkward, shifting from one foot to the other, and his hands won’t stay still. He looks nervously at Lydia, who doesn’t look up; Malia, who narrows her eyes; then back to Stiles. For his part, Stiles just stares at him, willing something to happen, forcing himself to keep his mouth shut so that he doesn’t say something stupid. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” asks Scott, unsure and anxious, looking so unlike the old Scott that it doesn’t feel right.

The old version of Scott wouldn’t ask when Stiles was talking to his friends, he would grab him and pull him aside, and everyone would understand, because they always did that. The old version of Scott wouldn’t beat around the bush, he would get right to the point and tell Stiles exactly what was wrong. Stiles pretends that it’s that which makes him agree. “Yeah, if it really is a moment, I’m kinda busy.”

Scott nods and Stiles gets up to follow him away from the rest of his friends. The last thing he sees when he looks back is Lydia’s face, her eyes still red, smiling faintly and reaching in her bad for her cell phone.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally thought this was going to be only 12 chapters. Lo, how the tables have tabled.
> 
> x Mochi

Stiles stops several yards away and refuses to walk any farther; after all, Scott’s the one who wanted to talk to him, not the other way around. He doesn’t really even want to think about Scott right now, Scott or anyone else, any _thing_ else. “All right, McCall, tell me what you want to talk about and be done with it, understand?”

Scott flinches visibly, and Stiles berates himself viciously and mentally— _the big bad wolf, scared of a pathetic human_ —until he can form a neutral expression on his face. Scott looks away. “Stiles . . . I haven’t been entirely honest with you, okay? About all this stuff. I didn’t just, I don’t know,  _dump_ you without any reason. I had a reason, but I was . . . scared you didn’t like me any more, and I didn’t want you to be—”

Stiles doesn’t bother to count down; he lets himself explode without warning or care. “Well, I don’t give a shit, McCall, about your fucking problems! I am so sick of you making excuses and trying to pass off everything by saying you’re  _sorry_ , thinking it’s okay, and I don’t want that to be how it ends up—I have a say in this too, and I say it’s  _not_ okay, not at all. Yeah, maybe you had your own issues, but you should have told me—isn’t that what we always do, right—or something. And seriously, enough with the apologies,” he adds as Scott opens his mouth, “because I don’t want to hear it, so shut up. You wanna know why I’m mad at you, huh? I’m mad at you because you were my best friend, my brother, the person I loved more than anyone, and then you treat me like shit. And that doesn’t feel great, you know?”

Scott blinks, mouth open slightly, frozen in place. “You . . . said you loved me, what does that mean?”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles amends hastily, playing it off, he can play it off, of course he can, “you’re my best friend, right? Of course I lo— _mmph_ .”

Without warning, Scott pushes his arms out of the way and hugs him, and Stiles—confused as he is, angry as he is, unwilling to forgive as he is—doesn’t stop Scott from touching him. Scott sucks in his breath with a ragged, choking sound, and Stiles lets his hands hang at his sides. “What . . . are you doing.”

Scott makes a sound that Stiles imagines means  _what the fuck does it look like I’m doing_ . He wonders if he should hug Scott back, but he isn’t sure he wants to do anything other than stand there and think about how much he’s wanted this but, when he’s actually experiencing it, the whole thing feels wrong. Scott seems to realise this, because he lets go and steps back, apologetic and shy. “Sorry.”

Stiles can’t think of what to say, because he’s an _idiot_ , and he hasn’t planned for this. “What’s the big deal, man? Do you have something to say or not, because I’m not gonna stand around waiting for you forever.”

It’s true, so true, that he isn’t going to wait for Scott, that as much as he’s been hoping that Scott will realise the error in  _his_ ways and make up for it in all the ways Stiles has been trying not to think about, maybe it’s Stiles who needs to change and start to let go, move on, give up. Maybe Scott really has changed irrevocably, maybe Scott isn’t the same guy he used to be, maybe Scott isn’t the best friend Stiles has loved since before he knew what love really was.

Maybe  _he_ needs to be the one who steps back and admits that he’s made a mistake, and moves on with his life, because nothing is going to change, and the Scott he misses doesn’t even exist any more.

“Can I, can I just explain?” says Scott hesitantly, his eyes flickering back and forth between his feet and Stiles’s face, not confident enough to settle on one place. “Just, let me talk. I’m not saying what I’ve been doing has been okay.”

“That’s one thing you’ve said that’s true,” Stiles grumbles, forcing his voice to take on a grumpy and unforgiving tone, because he shouldn’t be the type to forgive easily. He isn’t, he can’t be, he won’t be. “But yeah, sure. Why not, it’s not like you can make it worse.”

Scott winces and his eyes finally stay looking down at his shoes. They’re simple black sneakers, velcro instead of laces; Stiles knows Scott doesn’t like wearing shoes with laces because he always forgets to tie them and trips over the strings. He’s fallen over in class—during middle school, mostly—and was teased relentlessly until he wore velcro instead.

“Okay. So yeah, I’ve been a dick. We already established that,” Scott says, his cheeks turning red slightly. “It’s . . . I’m leaving to go to college soon, Stiles. I’m gonna go to a freaking college that’s hours away from where you’re gonna be, because you got into a freaking Ivy League school—and that great, yeah, but not for me.”

He takes a deep breath before he continues, and Stiles raises his eyebrows, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “I’m scared that everything’s gonna end up broken again, you know? Like you’re going to leave and I’m going to lose everything I love. I don’t want stuff like this to end, because if it does I’m not gonna have anything left. I don’t have my dad, and I don’t have Allison . . .”

Scott’s voice breaks a little on Allison’s name, and he clears his throat awkwardly and quickly, shifting his feet to cover up for it. Stiles doesn’t say anything; he knows how it must’ve felt to lose Allison, how it must still feel to remember that she’s gone.

“I don’t have Allison,” Scott continues, “and now I don’t have Kira, and I’m not going to have anyone else from Beacon Hills once I get to college. Not even the pack, not even Derek and Cora, or Deaton or Parrish or whoever, not even Liam and Malia. I kind of always thought I would have you, though.”

Stiles shrugs and, when Scott doesn’t keep going, opens his own mouth to speak. “Yeah, but losing people didn’t mean you had to become a huge douchebag, you know. You could’ve just said something about it, or whatever.”

Scott sighs and folds then unfolds his arms. “I’m not denying I was a douchebag, got it? Can we just agree that I fucked up and move on to the why? Because I don’t want to keep having this part of the conversation, about how stupid I am, I get that part, I really do.”

“Fine,” Stiles says noncommittally, not allowing any emotion to show on his face, not allowing himself to feel, not allowing himself to think. “Keep going.”

“I know that you know what it’s like to lose people,” Scott says—and yeah, he does, there’s Lydia and all, and  _his mom, he isn’t over that, he’ll never be over that._ “I didn’t want that to happen to me. So I guess I thought if I could stop having relationships, friendships, everything, then I wouldn’t have to lose anyone again. You can’t lose what you don’t have, right? And I didn’t want to have a damn thing.”

Oh, he understands, he knows, he feels Scott’s words resounding within him on a deep and horrifyingly personal level, he can barely comprehend how it must have been, but he still isn’t ready to forgive and to forget. Or maybe he can forgive, pizza or no, but there’s no forgetting for him yet. “You should have said something.”

“How the hell do I say that kind of thing?” says Scott bitterly. “Hey, Stiles, I’m scared everything’s gone to shit and I’m losing everything and I don’t want to lose you but I think I will; I don’t want to go to college away from you but I fucked up and now we’re gonna be in different states halfway across the country form each other and I don’t know how to reach you; I can’t imagine my life without you but you don’t seem to care or notice me; everything you’ve said is—”

“Hold on,” Stiles says, actually physically holding up a hand to stop Scott from speaking, “what was that part? About me, not caring,” he adds quickly, when Scott’s face registers only confusion and regret. “I care.”

Scott stumbles over his words the same way he used to stumble over his shoelaces; there’s no velcro in conversation. “I didn’t—well, I meant you—there isn’t a—maybe it was—okay, because you said—because I’m scared of you,” he finally finishes in a mumble, scuffing his shoes against the ground.

“Scared, of me?” repeats Stiles, absolutely flabbergasted (and that would be an SAT word, if he was still keeping track of those) by Scott’s response. “Why would you be scared of me, Scott?” It’s the first time he’s used Scott’s first name in the conversation.

“Because,” Scott says slowly, “I don’t want to lose you, asshat.”

“A bit too late for that,” Stiles quips helplessly.

“You’re an irrevocable dork,” Scott complains, but there’s a smile sneaking onto this face. The kind of smile that he used to wear all the time, before all the shit happened and everything went wrong. The kind of smile Stile used to hunger for, used to wish he could see more, used to try to bring out in his friend.

Stiles doesn’t know how to feel about that smile any more.

“Anyway,” Scott goes on, “so I guess what I’m trying to say is I know what it’s like to lose people, and I didn’t want that to happen. You know about my dad,” he finishes bitterly, and Stiles knows, he knows only too well, he’s familiar with the slump of Scott’s shoulders and the set of his jaw whenever he talks about his father. Maybe he can’t imagine why anyone’s dad would be such a dick to them—not when his own is, if not understanding, at least _there_ , most of the time—but he knows enough to understand that if it hurt Scott, then he doesn’t like it.

“You could’ve just said ‘I don’t want to lose you, asshat,’ and been done with it,” Stiles points out, sharper than he intended, not that he can be anything else at the moment, “you know I would’ve understood. I didn’t want to lose you either, but you were the one who fucked shit up, not me.”

“We can both take the blame for ‘fucking shit up,’ I think,” Scott says, an edge to his voice that Stiles is not in the mood to hear, not at all, not right now when he’s suddenly so tired and sick of the entire thing. “I fucked shit up because I didn’t want to lose—”

And suddenly he’s less tired than angry, angry at Scott acting like it’s all a thing of the past, because to him it isn’t in the least. “Stop saying you didn’t want to lose me, okay? I got that part. Can we just accept the fact that _you_ fucked up and get to the part where you start explaining _why_ you didn’t want to lose me or whatever? Sound good, yeah?”

“I don’t know if you want to know that,” Scott says, and there’s a definite finality in his tone that Stiles recognises, and he doesn’t think that anything could hurt him more right now than the fact that Scott is treating him like shit after everything they’ve gone through, he still isn’t enough to understand and be privy to everything.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to see more kid!Stiles and kid!Scott again . . . I love those dorks so much, and I absolutely love writing about them growing up. Sorry for the delays; I am still having computer problems but I will be posting new chapters as soon as they are edited. Hang in there!
> 
> For everyone who has stuck with this story: It means more than you can ever know to me to see your support. Feedback is one of the best things about writing, and I cherish each message when I get it. Positive encouragement is great, character analysis is even better, and some of the comments have been priceless.
> 
> As always, you can yell at me on tumblr: saraven2.tumblr.com  
> x Mochi

“Of course I want to know that, idiot,” Stiles says quickly, although he isn’t sure if he does. He looks back over to see Malia glaring at Scott and Lydia obliviously on her phone. Liam is nowhere to be seen. He thinks suddenly, ridiculously, that most of the pack likes him more than they like Scott. “Tell me, or I’m gonna leave. I don’t want to listen if you’re just gonna make excuses.”

Scott takes a deep breath and Stiles allows himself to hope that he’s going to say some magic words that can wipe everything that’s happened off the board—but that isn’t possible, not in real life. “Why did you kiss me?”

Out of all the possibilities, that wasn’t the one Stiles would’ve guessed Scott would choose to say. “Why ask me that now, Scott? I thought we weren’t gonna bring that up any more.”

“I want to know,” Scott says stubbornly, with those stupid puppy-dog eyes that no one can resist; Stiles knows he’s frequently fallen prey to them just as easily as anyone. “I’m not gonna judge you, dude, I just want to know if you’re . . .”

“What, gay?” Stiles can’t help but wince at the word, even though he knows it feels homophobic, even though he knows there’s nothing wrong with it. “I’m not. I mean, I don’t think I am. I don’t know.”

Now that’s he’s said that, it feels like the right answer: Having a friend-crush on someone is a lot different than being truly gay, and being completely and only interested in guys is a lot different than thinking your best friend is attractive. Maybe he is gay, or maybe he isn’t; he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t really want to think about it at the moment.

“You could talk to Danny,” Scott suggests halfheartedly, and Stiles knows he’s trying to come up with a good option or suggestion when he doesn’t have one. It feels like the old Scott.

“Danny isn’t the only gay guy in the world, much less Beacon Hills, much less this school,” Stiles says, petty and stupid as ever. He really doesn’t want to talk to Danny. He’s sure about that much of the whole thing, if nothing else. “Plus, there’s like, Derek.”

Scott actually laughs, quick and nervous. “I’m pretty sure he had a huge crush on you for a really long time.”

“Whatever.” Stiles knows his face is probably turning red and forces himself not to think about blushing—it’s been practically proven that thinking about blushing makes him blush even more. “I do _not_ have a crush on Derek.” There was probably, he thinks, although he’ll never tell Scott, some part of him that _did_ have a crush on Derek (how could he _not_ ) but it isn’t relevant any more. “I mean, obviously I don’t have a crush on Derek, that would be stupid—and also seriously, you’re asking me if _I_ have a crush on _Derek freaking Hale_ right now?”

Scott’s face is bright red as well, and he shifts nervously, his eyes downcast. “I’d be okay if you were, you know, gay.”

“Yeah, because that’s all I’d be looking for, your approval,” Stiles says sarcastically. “Because that’s all I need in order to be gay, right, the fact that you aren’t bothered by it.”

“No no no, that isn’t what I meant,” Scott says quickly, shaking his head back and forth. “I meant . . . my image of you doesn’t change . . . no matter who you are. And you don’t need to worry about me not treating you a certain way, even if you’re . . . yeah.”

Well, that’s great, except it doesn’t wipe out the fact that that’s been exactly what he’s doing. “You do realise that you’ve been doing just that, right,” Stiles says, deliberately injecting an even deeper note of sarcasm into his words. “Because I don’t want you to look like even more of an idiot. If that’s possible.”

“I’m _not_ trying to excuse what I did!” Scott’s face is flaming red and his eyes are bright with anxiety, but somehow (why, Stiles berates himself, why is he so stupid) Stiles can’t be that angry with him, not when he looks at the guy standing in front of him and sees the same boy who held his hand in middle school and shared his lunch and was there for him every day of his life. Until now. “Stiles, _please_ . . . that wasn’t what I meant, I swear to god that came out wrong, okay? Please.”

He wants to forgive Scott, oh, he wants to forgive; to let everything go and bygones remain as bygones, allow it all to come back, piece by piece like an old puzzle that doesn’t quite know how to stick itself together. But he knows, oh, he knows how it can never be the same; everything that puzzle stood for was torn apart and although it’s been pieced together many times before, it’s been torn and can’t be repaired.

In keeping with the pathetic puzzle metaphor: Maybe it’s time Stiles found a new game, not necessarily a puzzle, and started doing things with that one instead. Or maybe he can dig the old roll of tape out of the attic and piece the puzzle back together, one more time.

Or he can ignore it until it goes away, which has been his strategy for the most part of the rest of his life. It worked with bullies, who only bothered you because they wanted a reaction; it worked with his dad, who would eventually give up and wander off; it worked with friends, when he told them he was busy and didn’t want to talk to them and didn’t tell them the real reason; it worked with nearly everything, except the notable example being _but it didn’t work with his mom._ And Stiles doesn’t want to think about that, not now, not in the middle of a conversation, not in front of Scott, not now, not now, not now.

“Okay, whatever,” he says in response to Scott’s last plea, “but seriously, maybe you’re not—homophobic or whatever—but if you have something else to say, then say it, because I feel an awful lot like we’re going in circles here.”

Scott actually clears his throat like a total freaking dork. “Yeah, well,” he begins, then changes his mind, “never mind, I just wanna say . . . sorry. No excuses, no escapes, no reasons . . . just sorry. I was a shitty friend, and I had a lot of— _issues—_ and I overreacted and freaked out and acted like a total asshole to you and everyone else, but I broke up with Kira and everything’s gone to shit again, and god damn it Stiles, I don’t want this to end all over again. So this is not my apology, it’s my statement, that I’m too fucking sorry for words and I want to try again.”

And how is he supposed to take that, to take anything? Stiles can think of many things he’s perfectly excused to say in a situation such as this one, but the only word that pops out of his mouth when he opens it is “Why?”

Scott looks baffled. “Why what?”

“Why do you want to be my friend again? I mean, you made it pretty clear that you didn’t wanna be friends,” Stiles explains, keeping out the hurt, keeping out the jealousy, keeping out the pain, suffering, anger, destruction, denial, every other damn emotion he felt during those long months. “Why do you wanna be friends now?”

Scott clears his throat again (dork) and blinks rapidly, like he’s steeling himself. “Okay. I want to be your friend because there’s no one like you I’ve ever met, and I know that’s cliché but is it really cliché if it’s true? I want to be your friend because you’re a mix of sarcasm and confusion and deliberation, and it’s a pretty awesome mix. I want to be your friend because it’s been too long to just end everything, and I was stupid to think it was the right idea to move on. Do you remember when we were seven and you told me you were going to get out of Beacon Hills and see the world? I told you I would come with you, but I was seven, Stiles, and the only reason I said that was because you were going and, damn it, I was gonna go with you.”

Stiles does remember. It feels like yesterday when Scott mentions it— _they were playing in Scott’s back yard, with water guns and the hose, since Melissa had sent them outside to “get some sun and get out of my hair.”_

_Scott squirted his pistol at the house and left a long stain of water on the side. “This is boring, I wanna do something fun.”_

_“Well, your mum said we had to be outside,” Stiles reminded him, letting him know that it was his fault, his mother, his yard, his house. “I wanna play video games or something, but we have to be outside.”_

_“I wanna go somewhere, but it’s too hot,” Scott complained. “Hey, it’s like one of those things the teachers say—what do you want to do when you grow up?—only ours is better. Where would you go if you could go anywhere in the universe?”_

_“Alpha Centauri,” Stiles said thoughtfully; he’d learned about that from an old book his dad had shown him. “Or, um . . . the Rose Nebulae.” Roses were for girls, but the nebulae were beautiful, even if it was girly—he didn’t mind._

_“Pluto,” Scott added. “I bet it’s cold there. Really, really cold.”_

_“You’d freeze your butt,” Stiles said, dropping the water gun and throwing himself onto the worn grass. Scott flopped down next to him and grabbed the hose, curling himself around it like a cat, and Stiles did the same. Melissa had told them not to waste water, but hugging didn’t count as wasting, so he figured they were okay. “I wanna go to Jupiter.”_

_“What about in the world?” asked Scott, diminishing the size of their range of options. “Not the universe.”_

_Stiles didn’t have to think about that one; the answer slipped off his tongue easily. “Somewhere cold. With popsicles. So we could build a snow fort. Also I don’t wanna live in this stupid town.”_

_“Why not?” asked Scott, turning over on his side so that their eyes met. It wasn’t exactly luring on a grassy hill in starlight, but it wasn’t bad for two nine-year-old boys. “What’s wrong with Beacon Hills?”_

_Stiles considered, then, with the bluntness of a kid, said, “My mom died.”_

_“Oh.” Scott hugged the hose tighter. “That kinda sucks.”_

_“Yeah,” Stiles said, looking back up at the bright sky, cloudless and serenely blue, “yeah, it kinda does. But it’s okay, I’m not freaking out,” he lied, jumping up to his feet. “C’mon, let’s go do something else. This is boring.”_

_“Okay,” Scott said loyally, releasing his chokehold on the garden hose. “We can pretend we’re going somewhere. Some place really fun. You can pick first,” he offered, and Stiles knew it was because Scott was trying to be nice, “and then I’ll go with you.”_

_Stiles shrugged. “Why would you go with me?”_

_Scott looked at him as though he were completely idiotic. “Because you’re my best friend, stupid,” he said, then grabbed the water guns and started running towards the front yard, Stiles following close behind._

 


	14. Chapter 14

Oh, and does he remember everything, but Scott isn’t finished. “You’ve been my best friend for twelve years, Stiles, and that isn’t something I can just throw away. Maybe I thought I could. Maybe I was wrong. I want to be your friend because without you, everything is so much more normal—so much  _normaler_ . Remember when we made that word up in third grade? Yeah, it’s like that, and to be honest . . . I’m scared. Scared of lots of things, but mostly scared of the world. And you’ve never been scared of the world—or if you have, you’ve always been able to scare the shit out of it.”

“I’ve been pretty damn scared of the world,” Stiles says dryly. “It’s some scary shit out there now. Beacon Hills is just the tip of the metaphorical iceberg, and I’m in no place to sail a ship right now.”

Scott almost laughs, but changes his mind. “Well, all I remember is that when we were together . . . friends, I mean . . . everything was scared of us instead, and that’s a lot better than being alone.”

“Well,” Stiles says, because he’s an idiot, and also half in love with his newly restored best friend, “maybe we can give it another try,” but Scott stops him before he can go any further down that path.

“Do or do not,” he says slowly and painfully, in a truly horrible Yoda accent that is simply  _scandalous_ , especially considering the simple fact that Stiles could do far better with only a cup of coffee and two hours of sleep, “there is no  _try._ ”

And Stiles will say it’s that, that’s what started it; it was the simple fact that Scott’s decided to try to win him over by impersonating a tiny green Muppet, and that’s what makes him pause and look at Scott a little differently. “Dude, you haven’t even seen Star Wars, and you’re trying to be Yoda?”

Scott gives him a weak smile: It’s there, but it needs life support and constant monitoring. “So are we okay?”

Are they okay, are they ever okay, can anything be okay. “Uh, I guess so,” Stiles begins, but he doesn’t get any further (again!) before Scott grabs him and hugs him (again!) and refuses to let him go (again!) but this time Stiles holds on too, keeps holding on, doesn’t release Scott even when it’s supposed to be awkward, buries his face in Scott’s familiar shoulder and inhales his scent, because,  _damn it, smelling people isn’t only for werewolves._

“You better come and sit with us and talk shit about the rest of the world,” Stiles warns Scott, still with his face in Scott’s shirt, his voice muffled by the cotton. He remembers when Scott only wore cotton because he thought he was allergic to something in the plastic, and what a big deal it had seemed like at the time. Now he isn’t even sure if werewolves can get allergies. “Like old times, yeah?”

“That’s the Stiles I was talking about,” Scott replies, his voice just as muffled, although Stiles knows it’s probably because he’s getting choked up. Well, that thing hasn’t changed—he’s still an absolute sucker when it comes to emotional standpoints.

Stiles grabs Scott’s hand (time for thinking later; besides, it was right below his wrist, so it’s okay) and starts to drag him in the direction of the table where Malia and Lydia are. Liam is gone, still presumably with Mason. Malia looks up and growls, her eyes going feral, bright and golden.

“Uh, no, please don’t do that,” Stiles says, as everything comes rushing back over him—he has a girlfriend and Scott has another life of his own and Malia is angry at Scott (not without reason) and he doesn’t know what to do—and then he stumbles around with his words like an idiot. “It’s okay, Malia, he’s not . . .” Not what? Bad? “A complete asshole,” Stiles finishes lamely.

“Thanks for that,” Scott mutters, and his hand inexplicably tightens around Stiles’s wrist. Stiles is beginning to get confused over the whole thing, but he’s also trying not to think about it. Totally platonic wrist grabs. Stiles is down for that.

Lydia looks up (thank god) and quickly shoves her phone into her bag. “Well, hello there, Scott. What’s up, Stiles?”

“Um,” Stiles says (he’s so articulate, so detailed in his words, immensely intelligent and vociferous), “well, Scott’s gonna sit with us now.”

Scott lifts his head and a confusing expression of thoughtfulness appears on his face; Stiles ignores him and sits down next to Lydia, daring either of them to argue, although he doesn’t really want them to argue, he doesn’t really want to argue at all, he’s just thinking he does because he’s that kind of person. Scott sits tentatively next to him and shrinks into himself, taking up as little space as possible.

Lydia tosses her curls and sets her bag down; Stiles hears the thud as it hits the surface of the table. “All right,” she says, and Stiles knows she won’t ask him for the reason, won’t complain, won’t wonder aloud what possessed him to change his tune so rapidly, because she’s possibly the best friend ever, “sounds fine to me.”

“Where’s Liam?” asks Scott suddenly, craning his neck to look around. Stiles thinks fleetingly of the fact that Liam treats Scott as his dad, and fights with himself to hold back his smile at the thought.

“Dunno,” he says, which is true, “I think he went to see Mason, again. And that girl he likes, whatever her name is.” He knows her name, but he doesn’t want to bring it up, especially not now.

Malia has remained silent, but at this she perks up. She’s next to Lydia now, on her other side, staring down at her food. She doesn’t have much, and she hasn’t eaten what looks like any of it. “Hayden Romero.”

“Yes, thank you, Malia,” Stiles says without keeping the sarcasm away from his words. “That is exactly who I was talking about.”

Lunch goes about as well as expected, with terse words if any, and several tense glares at one another; Stiles wisely keeps his head down and eats without looking up or making eye contact. Lydia leaves first, and Malia follows along behind, glancing back anxiously at Scott and Stiles.

No words are exchanged; Stiles looks at the surface of the table. Lydia’s bag is still sitting on it. Probably she’ll return for it later, but Stiles considers it his friendly duty to consign it properly back to her.

“I should find Lydia,” he says eventually, since they’re both still just sitting there mutely, “and give it back to her. You know, it’s got her phone and books and stuff in it. She probably need it back.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, “yeah, probably.”

Stiles gets up, grabs Lydia’s bag, and walks away, head hanging and feeling somehow worse than he had been feeling when they were still unfriended, unsure as to how things can possibly get worse.

 

***

 

What a thing to say, since things always get worse, because he lives in Beacon Hills of all places, and there’s werewolves and were-coyotes and kanima and kitsune and demons and faeries and sprites and elves and witches and banshees and whatever the hell else you can think of—all in this goddamn town.

So maybe he’s a little bitter, getting a little tired of everything, and he hasn’t really been a part of the pack for a couple months, but he would’ve heard if anything was going on—and it hasn’t been, not really, but it’s still there, that presence of magic—and damn him, he hasn’t even heard from Derek, and Derek used to show up at his window every night.

Right—because Derek Hale apparently had a stupid crush on him, like a middle-school girl. Because that’s not hard to believe at all.

Lydia has about nine million messages on her phone (108 to be precise) and Stiles doesn’t read them because he’s a good friend, but when a new one appears he looks at it on the screen before it disappears. The phone number is an unknown, out-of-area, so he has no clue who it is.

Well. Maybe that isn’t entirely true.

 

 **From** : Unknown Number

Lyds. Please call me I need to talk to you. I’m sorry about last week; I didn’t mean to hurt you.

 

Stiles is tempted to unlock Lydia’s phone—he knows her pass code, after all—but doesn’t. He’s a good friend. Friends don’t sneak into other friends’ phones and read their (vaguely) threatening messages. Nope.

Then he checks his _own_ phone, and he has six new messages. A small fraction of those in Lydia’s, perchance, but considering that the only people who message him now are few and far between, it’s something.

 

 **From** : Kira

still on for movie nite? ;)

 

 **From** : Scott

hey . . . so yeah this is awkward

 

 **From** : Lydia

NO I do not mean liam, wtf stilinski

 

 **From** : Scott

anyway i dont know if youll answer but i wanted to say sorry (again)

 

 **From** : Scott

ive been an asshole and i apologise, can u call me pls?

 

Stiles considers it probably more than he should, but after about five minutes of setting his phone down and picking it up again, he takes it in his hands and starts to dial. The number loads automatically, a remnant of the years of dialling only Scott’s number and no one else’s, and it brings a slight smile to his face.

Scott picks up after three rings, and answers in a way that’s confusing and terrifying, to say the least, and also Stiles wants to murder him again.

“Hello, this is Scott McCall,” he says politely, regulated and calm, “who’s this?”


	15. Chapter 15

“Um, this is Stiles,” Stiles says, slightly confused. “Scott?” He barely stops himself from saying _Scotty_ , but it’s too different, too stupid, to say something like that. “You didn’t know it was me?” And maybe his voice sounds a little whiny, a little desperate, but screw that—he’s feeling a little whiny, a little desperate, a little broken right now.

“Shit,” Scott says after a pause that’s too long, “shit.”

“Scott McCall!” Stiles is starting to regret calling, and wow, that means a lot, because he’s always, always been down for calling Scott at any time of day or night or—“How did you not know it was me?”

Scott exhales slowly and Stiles wonders if, even over the phone, through lines and cables and god knows what else, his accelerated heartbeat is still noticeable. “I’m . . . sorry, Stiles. I’m just super busy right now. There was this whole thing with Kira, and—”

“Kira isn’t a ‘thing,’” Stiles says, irritated, knowing he’s bitching about something that shouldn’t matter than much to him, “she’s a person, and you dumped her—”

“I didn’t dump her, it was a mutual breakup—”

“If it was a mutual breakup then why are you having to deal with it—”

“I didn’t mean that I was—”

“You don’t—”

“Stiles—”

“ _Scott_ —”

And then all of a sudden it’s a shouting match, and he’s struggling to understand what Scott’s even saying over the roaring noise in his ears, blood rushing through his temples. “Stiles, I’m getting really tired of this, and I know it’s weird, yeah, and I’m sick of saying sorry, and all I really want to know is are we going to be friends again or not because if not then say so and let’s be done with it.”

A ringing silence follows this proclamation, a silence that’s so loud he wants to scream into the void of it, desperate to be heard, hopelessly drowning smothered in silence. “Is that a breakup line?” jokes Stiles halfheartedly, and it sounds pathetic even to him. _The king of humour!_ What a fucked-up mistake he’s made.

“I don’t . . . Stiles.”

“Scott,” Stiles says in return, holding the phone like it’s the only thing left, like Scott’s voice is the only thing tethering him to the material world, “Scott,” and it’s too much, he’s losing it, and through the dim and hazy fog of terror and inability to breathe properly he hears more words and clings to them, lifelines in the smoky water.

“Stiles, hey, Stiles, are you okay? Stiles, man, listen to me, it’s okay, it’s okay, hang on—where are you? I’m gonna come and get you, just hang on, I’ll be there in a moment— _where are you, Stiles?_ ”

“I’m in the cafeteria,” Stiles manages over the pounding of blood in his head, “free period for seniors,” and then he’s bending over, clutching the phone to the side of his head, gasping over and over, “Scott, Scott, Scott,” and then there’s footsteps and the door bursts open and Scott’s there.

Scott grabs Stiles’s hands and pries the phone out of them, his eyes flickering all over the place, _stupid werewolf idiot_ , and leans in close so that their foreheads are almost, almost touching; “Scott,” Stiles chokes out, and Scott grabs him by the shoulders and pushes his hands to the place where Scott’s heart is beating rapidly.

“Feel that?” says Scott, locking his gaze with Stiles’s, his eyes normal-chocolate-brown, “Stiles. Stiles, hey. You’re okay, I’m here, just hold on to me.”

And Stiles is; he’s holding onto Scott’s chest and listening to his heart beating, gasping into the fabric of Scott’s shirt, _that stupid polyester_ , and Scott’s arms are around him, holding him there, and it’s real, things are okay, he’s real, he’s alive, he isn’t dead or drowning or possessed or anything and he’s there and Scott is there and it’s all going to be okay.

“Scott,” Stiles gasps again, and then his mind is screaming _stop stop stop_ but he doesn’t know how to stop himself, “Scott, I’m okay, I promise, I just—lost it for a moment. Really, I’m fine now, you can stop worrying.”

Scott doesn’t move away though, and his stupid chocolate eyes are still full of worry and fear and some other thing that probably starts with _q_. “I can never stop worrying about you, dumbass,” he says shortly, the relief plain in his every word, “not if you scare me half to death each time I turn my back.”

“It’s just a panic attack,” Stiles says, but he knows there’s no _just_ about it. The _just_ is bad enough; the _panic_ and the _attack_ are added bonus twins of agony and terror and stupid other stuff. “Well, I’d hoped we were . . .” But we were what? Past this? Does he really want to be past the times in which Scott worries about him? “Did you remember your inhaler?”

A smile lights up Scott’s face; he pulls Stiles to his feet and into a bone-crushing hug, resting his chin on Stiles’s shoulder and exhaling slowly into his collar. “You dumbass human dorkface,” Scott says, and Stiles knows for sure then that Scott isn’t completely gone, not yet.

 

***

 

They stay in the cafeteria for an amount of time that Stiles can’t quantify, even though he knows that Scott should probably be in class and he himself should probably be studying or giving Lydia back her bag; and they sit together with their backs against the bumpy wall the way they used to spend free periods, when they would talk about girls or grades or good times like it was all that mattered. Before the werewolves and the demons and the death and blood and pain, when Stiles’s biggest fears were losing his dad or getting a grade below a D, and Scott’s favourite things to talk about were Allison or lacrosse, depending on the mood of the day.

“So,” Scott says as they sit there, both of them lost in thoughts too complex to name, “so, Stiles. Why were you mad at me about breaking up with Kira? We both agreed to it. I mean—I loved her, but she isn’t . . .”

 _She isn’t Allison._ Too many times has Stiles heard those words, but never did they sound so heartbreakingly sorrowful. Allison is gone, and no amount of wishing and breaking up can bring her back. “That’s not why I was mad, dude. It’s just—she isn’t a thing to worry about, she’s a person, and even if she isn’t,” _Allison,_ “she’s still valuable as a person.”

“Yeah, Gollum,” Scott says, off-hand. “It just wasn’t working, you know?” He looks over and sees Stiles’s expression, and quickly corrects himself: “Shit, sorry. Of course you know, with Lydia and everything.”

But it isn’t Lydia that Stiles is thinking about, it’s Scott himself, about what could have been. _If only he hadn’t fucked it up_ has become his new motto, of sorts, _if only he hadn’t fucked it up._ “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Scott looks over briefly, then away; it’s fleeting, and stupid, but Stiles wants to say something else, something he knows he never can say, but then Scott’s saying something too. “Hey, do you have any cigarettes or something?”

Stiles stares at him furiously for almost thirty seconds before Scott breaks down in laughter and Stiles realises it was a joke. “Fuck you, McCall,” Stiles says over Scott’s laughter, “and for starters, you don’t say _cigarettes_ —”

Scott flops onto the filthy cafeteria floor and manages to choke out through his fits of laughter, “’Ey, man, ya got a packet of fags?” before losing it again. Stiles glares at him before pointedly lifting his head to convey that he’s above this frivolous banter.

He isn’t, really.

“You know,” Scott says when he can speak again without laughing at his own stupid jokes, “I remember how we used to sit here sometimes, when we were cutting class or had free periods—I, I remember how we would sit here and talk about stupid shit and stuff like that, who liked whom, if I was going to pass bio, if you would ever make lacrosse team.”

Stiles closes his eyes and lets Scott’s voice wash over him, imagining that it’s the last few seconds of his life and he’s spending it here with his best friend. If he keeps his eyes closed, a reddish blur lights up behind his eyelids and he can picture how Scott must look while he’s telling stories, his face scrunched up in that stupidly cute way of his, eyes slightly narrowed in concentration as he remembers and drags back the memories. It’s not a bad way to die, Stiles thinks, if, of course, he was dying. He’s not; there’s no way in hell he’s going to die right now.

“I remember one time,” Scott says, “when you were totally obsessed with Lydia and thought she would never notice you—what a joke it seems like now, huh—and almost started crying. You found me and said, ‘McCall, I need a cafeteria break,’ and we went over here and skipped American Lit and you basically sobbed out how much you loved Lydia Martin and would love her forever and no one would stand in the way except Jackson and his, how did you put it, ‘permanently tainted, perfectly styled douchey oversized head’?”

Scott pauses and laughs fondly at the memory; Stiles is torn between wanting to smack him for bringing up Lydia at this time and place, and wanting to go to sleep with his head falling down to rest on Scott’s comfortable shoulder. Maybe both, but smacking comes later.

“Anyway, you were raging about Jackson and moaning about Lydia, and asked me for advice on girls and douchebag boyfriends, and I stumbled around a bit and came up with ‘how about you just punch him and after you’ve broken your hand Lydia will defend your honour?’ I don’t remember exactly, but you thought it was a great idea.”

“I would,” Stiles mumbles into the soft fabric of Scott’s collar, “’m an idiot.”

Scott laughs silently, his body shaking and disrupting Stiles only slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, you were. And then you went and punched that idiot, and Lydia told you to leave him alone and stalked off like a pompous prom queen, and Jackson about near kicked you into next week. You ran to the cafeteria complaining like a pro, and I couldn’t stop laughing . . .”

But Stiles is almost completely gone, drifted into sleep, and his last thought (other than thinking it’s _not_ on his bucket list to fall asleep on the floor of the school cafeteria) is that he really, really likes Scott as his best friend.


End file.
